


For the Rest of Us

by PsiCygni



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Holidays, New Year's Eve, New Years, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-24 23:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2601026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsiCygni/pseuds/PsiCygni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You go every Sunday night? How did I not know this?” Nyota asks. "It’s just this thing we do," Gaila tells her. "Like with food.  And drinks. And people. We all get together and talk about our homes and our traditions and celebrate our holidays and stuff like that. Look, you can come if you want but it’s all off worlders.  It's not really a human thing, you'd be the only one."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 11/11/14: So I know that I’m right in the middle of posting The Place Between (insert plug for everyone to go read it if you aren’t already!) but this story is all about the holidays and I want to post it during November and December and get it all up before New Years. I promise that I’m not going to interrupt TPB because that’s hardly fair, so enjoy the remainder of 2014 with ridiculously often postings! Happy almost holidays!

“It’s just this thing,” Gaila explains as she runs her thumb under her lower lid to neaten the edge of eyeliner. “Like with food. And drinks. And people.”

“You go every Sunday night? How did I not know this?”

“I can’t help that you’re not up to speed on my social life. And anyway it’s not really a human thing.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It’s all off worlders. You can come if you want but you’d be the only human.”

“Oh.” Nyota idly smooths her hand across the novel she’s reading, her fingerprints smearing the screen so that she has to wipe it clean again with her sleeve. 

“You’re not, not invited. I just don’t know if it’d be fun for you.”

“I like people. And food. And drinks. And off worlders, obviously.”

“Yeah but you also like verbs and past participles and other stuff like that.”

“No fans of past participles allowed? Is that like an entrance requirement?”

“You know what I mean. We all get together and talk about home and where we come from and our traditions and all. It’s not like a language class.”

“Why would I not enjoy that?”

“Because you enjoy solitude, silence, and drowning yourself in academia? And the semester’s starting in like two days and you need to rest up so that you’re ready at a moment’s notice to make flashcards, not to mention get a head start on your color coding system for your notes?”

Nyota’s too embarrassed to admit she’s already organized everything for the semester. 

“Aren’t you the one always telling me I should go out and have more fun?” she says instead.

“Come, then, just don’t do something embarrassing like ask someone why they chose to use an adionoeta or a crasis.”

“Do you steal my textbooks and look this stuff up?”

“No,” Gaila says too quickly. “And let’s go, we’re celebrating Cha’Tara with all the Bajorans and Schori said she’s making her mom’s miresa recipe.”

…

Cha’Tara, Nyota learns about two minutes into the gathering, involves eating a lot. As far as she can discern, it’s a Bajoran holiday celebrating the arrival of some sort of prophet, but Gaila’s so busy introducing her to various people that Nyota misses the rest of the story.

“This is Hlaura, he’s a Cheilith,” Gaila says, one hand curled around Nyota’s elbow as she drags her through the crowd. Hlaura waves a tentacle at Nyota and she waves back. She’s never met a Cheilith before, only read about them, and tries not to stare.

“This is Crisaedh – watch out for her wings, Ny – who lives down by that bar we went to? Remember that single time last year you decided to wrest yourself free from the clutches of homework? She has a great view of the bay, you should see it. And this is N'Takim,” Gaila continues without missing a beat. “We did not have sex in your bed, in case you were wondering.”

“Now I am,” Nyota says quietly. 

“Well, we didn’t. Would have, but I’m the best roommate in the world. Any world, probably. All of the worlds. And this is R’Eka who’s up from Los Angeles for the weekend where she’s a –“ Gaila snaps her fingers, then frowns. “Sorry, ‘Eka, I can’t keep it all straight.”

“I am a Kindergarten teacher,” R’Eka explains in the deep, guttural tone of Aferrarons. Her gray scales click together like sheets of armor, nearly iridescent and beautiful.

“That’s like a garden where they grow small children,” Gaila explains to Nyota.

“No- it’s-“

“And this is Didiza! Hi! I didn’t know you were coming!” 

Gaila kneels and hugs the tiny purple blob. Nyota knows she knows the name for that species but can’t quite come up with it, not with how distracted she is by watching Gaila pick purple goo from her curls and hand it back to Didiza, who resorbs it promptly. 

“Hi,” Nyota says, offering a wave instead of a hug, since it seems the safer – and cleaner – choice.

“You brought a human,” a tall Andorian says to Gaila, coming up behind her and scrutinizing Nyota.

“This is my roommate,” Gaila explains. “She speaks every language, ever!”

“I don’t-“

“Welcome to the Off-World Intercultural Club, San Francisco Chapter,” he says in Andorian.

“This one thanks you for your welcome and hospitality as is befitting of a guest,” she responds carefully. She took Andorian two semesters ago and hasn’t practiced as much as she should, but she gets a broad smile in return, his teeth startlingly sharp and white against his blue skin.

“Thaalan,” he says, pointing towards the middle of his chest.

“Nyota,” she answers, mirroring the gesture, but farther down her torso as Andorian women are supposed to.

It gets her another smile and he holds out his hand to shake, his skin shockingly cool against hers.

“Welcome,” he says in Standard this time.

The conversation rises above them as another group walks in the door and she has to raise her voice slightly to answer. 

“I’m glad to be here.”

…

“You have a beautiful home,” she tells Thex. “Do you often host these gatherings?”

“We do. This is my wife,” he says, his arm curled around another Bajoran’s shoulders.

“I am Schori.”

“Hi, I’m Nyota.”

“Welcome, Nyota.”

“Thank you for having me.”

“We are the hosts,” Thex confirms, nodding so that the intricate silver earring on his right ear sways gently. The light catches it and it sparkles for a moment, distracting Nyota slightly because she really wants to ask about it, not to mention the beautiful one cover the length of his wife’s ear. “We have the largest house and rather enjoy the company every week.”

“It is fortunate that we have a large home,” Schori says and turns under her husband’s arm to smile up at him. His hand brushes over her stomach and he returns her smile.

“Oh. Oh,” Nyota says. “Congratulations.”

“We receive your good wishes,” Thex says solemnly. 

“We receive your good wishes,” Schori echoes and smiles again, her hand pressed to her abdomen. “Have you found sufficient food? We did not know a Terran was attending tonight but I believe Bajoran dishes are quite similar.”

“It’s all delicious, thank you. I tried the, um-“ Nyota pauses, trying to think of the word. “Too-git?” she says in Bajoran. “That’s what they’re called?”

“To’ogit,” Schori gently corrects. “I am glad you found them pleasing.”

“To’ogit,” Nyota echoes. “I took a semester of Bajoran but I admit I’m not as proficient in it as I’d like.”

A small smile flits across Thex’s face. “I have met few humans who have made the attempt to learn our language.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful, I really enjoyed it, I just wish I had studied more of it.”

“If you would like to practice, we are honored by your effort,” Thex says.

“I thank you,” she replies carefully, then winces. “Uh, wait-“

“That was commendable,” Schori assures her. She squints off towards the dining room where a Tellarite is reaching above him to pull a bottle of liquor down off the table. “Excuse me, please.”

“So do you always make Bajoran food for these events?” Nyota asks Thex when Schori has moved away. “I think if I had known, I would have asked Gaila to bring me back some to’ogit.”

Thex smiles again, but shakes his head, his earring catching the light again. “Whoever’s holiday we are celebrating is responsible for bringing culturally appropriate food. You simply came on a night where we are celebrating a Bajoran holiday. We will gather, soon, for an explanation and celebration.”

“That’s wonderful. You all trade off, between your cultures? Take turns?”

“As work schedules permit, and as our own holidays line up with the Terran calendar. Cheilithan years are so long, for instance, that Hlaura has only once had the opportunity to celebrate his culture with us.” Thex glances around at who’s near them, then lowers his voice. “I will admit, that while I enjoy learning about my friend’s rituals and traditions, I do not feel the need to seek out Cheilithan food.”

Nyota can’t help but smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Thaalan is perhaps the most adventurous eater than we have and even he found himself rather hungry at the end of the evening.” Thex smiles again, this time fonder like he’s lost in the memory of the event. “I do not believe that when he suggested we begin meeting in order to have a place to celebrate our holidays with others that he particularly anticipated that occurrence.”

Nyota breathes out a quiet laugh and nods. “I can imagine.”

Thex inclines his head towards her, just slightly. “We are pleased you have joined us this evening, Nyota of Earth.”

“Thank you for sharing all of this,” she answers, bowing slightly in return. She pauses, tries to drum up the right phrase. “I offer you thanks.”

“And we offer you welcome,” Threx says in perfect, classical Bajoran in return. “Enjoy your evening.”

…

She’s having trouble finding the bathroom, which is how she ends up in a quiet room in the back of the house near the kitchen that is completely lined with shelves and shelves of books. They’re the very type of which she would pursue for hours if she wasn’t there as Gaila’s guest, and would be forced to listen to her roommate tease her until they graduate about reading at a party, and then very likely long into their commissions afterwards.

Even so, she gives herself ten seconds to scan the closest shelf before going in search of the bathroom again.

But maybe instead of ten seconds, she’ll give herself twenty seconds.

Thirty, maybe.

A full minute and then she’ll really, actually leave.

Or five minutes. Five minutes isn’t too long.

She just about jumps out of her skin when she hears footsteps behind her and snaps the book shut so fast a blast of air rushes past her face.

It’s not Gaila, thankfully, and she didn’t damage the ancient, paper book she’s holding, which is even better.

And the guy who walked in – tall, dark haired and very quiet – simply nods at her, steps past her and deeper into the room like she’s not even there.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Nyota promises when she rejoins Gaila.

“You found the library.”

“No,” she says, sighs, nods. “It was amazing.”

“Nyota Uhura, you are ridiculous. Have a drink. Have two. And stop being a creep looking around people’s houses.”

“I wasn’t the only one,” she points out but Gaila’s not listening because she’s mixing up something that is bright blue, bubbly, and looks like it might very well be lethal to humans. “I’m not sure-“

“Drink. And I can’t help that you’re the weirdest person here and yet this is your planet.”

It tastes like chocolate milk, but better. Richer and buttery and it’s kind of amazing and Nyota takes a second sip and then a third.

“Cultural subjectivity,” Nyota says after her fourth sip, frowning at her now half empty glass. “You can’t make that distinction when you’re comparing-“

“Put it in a can.”

“What?”

“Stop talking. You’re just beyond excited for school to start.”

Nyota grimaces at her glass again.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Yes. No.”

“Ridiculous,” Gaila repeats, then downs half of her own drink. “But I love you.”

“Um, thanks.”

“Let’s find more food.”

… 

There are no chairs left once everyone has gathered in the living room, so Nyota finds herself standing near the fireplace. She sets her glass down on the mantle and crosses her arms behind her, trying to make room for Gaila to stand next to her. 

The room is packed full of so many different species of people that Nyota has trouble not staring. And Gaila was right – she’s the only human, and really one of the only humanoids. There’s Gaila herself, the Andorian, the Bajoran couple whose house they’re in, a Vulcan who Nyota realizes belatedly is the same guy who was in the library earlier - she doesn’t know how she missed his ears but she did – and two Tellarites and one Trill. Then there’s Didiza, who has dissolved into a flat, purple puddle near the coffee table, and Crisaedh whose wings are taking up most of the couch, and a Seiliu who’s obviously in its dormant phase and is currently rooted in a pot, which someone placed next to the other houseplants by the window.

“Welcome,” Thaalan says and there’s a murmur around the room as everyone greets him in return. “We have a guest tonight,” he continues, extending one blue hand towards Nyota at the same time he points an antenna at her.

“Hi,” she says with a small wave and a smaller smile, suddenly shy under the number of eyes and other sensory appendages that have turned towards her at Thaalan’s gesture. “I’m Nyota, I’m here with Gaila. Thanks for having me.”

“Welcome, Nyota,” she hears in dozens of different languages, which makes her wish more than anything that she had a recording device with her, but she promised Gaila she wouldn’t embarrass her.

“We are here tonight to learn about Cha’Tara,” Thaalan says and the antenna that was pointing at Nyota fixes on one of the Bajorans standing near the back of the room. “Thex?”

Thex steps forward to sit cross-legged next to Thaalan and the room quiets as everyone waits for him to speak.

“Cha’Tara is a holiday that celebrates the teachings of the Prophets of Bajor,” he says, folding his hands neatly in his lap and looking around the room. Everyone’s listening attentively, their eyes – or whatever passes for eyes on them – fixed on him. “On Bajor we have a light festival in our capital city, to which all Bajorans who are on-planet travel. Our Kai – in Standard, High Priest – brings forth the orbs of the prophets and recounts the history of prophecies, as has been done every year, and will be so every year.” He pauses and looks at each and everyone in the room in turn. When his gaze falls on Nyota she feels the weight of it and the solemnity of the moment, the quiet hush that has come over the group. “We are meant to be with our families on Bajor at this time every year and today I am here, due to the constraints of my profession. Therefore, I thank you for being with me on this day.”

There’s a quiet murmur again from around the room and Thex bows his head slightly before continuing.

“I have brought a demonstration of the light show. It is more beautiful on Bajor, should you ever have the opportunity to see it.”

He produces a small, golden sphere and briefly cups it in his hands before twisting it. He pulls apart the two halves to reveal a smaller sphere inside, this one covered in small carvings. 

They’re cut outs, Nyota realizes when he thumbs on a small switch and places it on the coffee table in the middle of the room. 

“Lights,” someone says and the room dims, the only illumination the gray-blue of late evening streaming through the windows and the golden light streaming out from within the orb, shining on the walls and ceiling of the living room.

“Oooh,” Gaila breathes. “Cool!”

Thex starts humming, a slow reverberating sound that Nyota feels somewhere down deep in her chest. Schori joins in, harmonizing with him and Gaila smiles softly, watching them, and Nyota finds herself doing the same.

…

Nyota finds Gaila’s in the back talking to someone tall enough that Nyota can only see a couple bright red curls sticking up over his shoulder.

It’s that guy again, she realizes as she approaches them. She steps carefully around Didiza and tries not to slip on her, even as she catches Gaila’s eye.

“Hiya!” Gaila grins. “Have you two met yet? And wasn’t that thing Thex had really neat?”

“I am Spock,” the Vulcan says, holding up his hand in the ta’al. “Welcome.”

“Nyota,” she offers in return, raising her hand in the same gesture and thanking herself for having practiced it enough that she can do it nearly as easily as he does. “And thank you.”

“I trust you are having a satisfactory experience?”

“It’s great, yeah, thanks for asking,” she says, nodding. She feels warm and flushed from the overheated room, and probably from the second drink Gaila got for her. “I never really knew anything about Bajoran culture so this is really interesting.”

“Nyota’s a huge nerd,” Gaila explains, then raises both hands, palms out. “What? You are!”

The Vulcan – Spock – raises one eyebrow at Gaila’s exclamation. 

“A single minded expert in a particular technical field?” he asks. “Is that the correct translation?”

“If that field is being a nerd,” Gaila confirms, looping her arm through Nyota’s. “Want another drink?”

“I’m good,” she says and Gaila gives her a squeeze before disappearing into the crowd. Spock’s tall and she has to look up him in a way that makes her feel decidedly short. “Yes, that’s what it means.”

“That is quite a skill to be so proficient and yet her tone implied that it was not a compliment.”

“She’s…” Nyota says, waving a hand in the direction Gaila just went before realizing that such effusive gestures aren’t really the best when used with Vulcans. “She was just teasing me.”

“So I should not surmise from this example that it would be appropriate to inform humans that they are nerds?”

His comment is so dry that it somehow crosses the line of just being bland and expressionless and becomes kind of funny.

“Exactly.”

“Duly noted.”

“I suppose unless you’re an Orion. They use teasing as a sign of affection. Which I guess you might know if you know Gaila.”

He glances down at himself. “As you can observe, I am not Orion. Furthermore, we are not close acquaintances and I have found that my heritage has a tendency to discourage such informal interactions.” 

“You never know with her,” Nyota warns. “Part of that Orion charm.”

“Thank you for the advanced notice,” he says in that same wry tone. He tips his head to the side and studies her for a moment. “You have not attended one of these gatherings before.”

It’s not really a question but she answers it anyway.

“Gaila just told me about them. I guess she’s been coming for a while, though.” She tucks her hair behind her ear and glances up at him. “Do you come often?”

“I recently returned to Earth,” he explains. “This is the third event I have attended since then.”

She’s on the verge of asking him where he returned from, and what he does here if it’s not his first time living here, when someone calls his name from across the room and he excuses himself.

“Good evening,” he says as he steps away from her.

“Nice chatting with you,” she responds and then watches him as he disappears into the crowd.

…

“Did you have fun?” Gaila asks, once she’s said her final goodbyes and joins Nyota out on the sidewalk. Gaila yawns into her shoulder and squints up at an offending streetlight, obviously too bright for her level of exhaustion.

“I’d never heard an illeism used colloquially like that!” Nyota says, her mind still churning over her conversation with O’nama. That gets her a sigh that borders on a groan, but Nyota hardly cares. “And I’d never met a Noelind before, so that was great. And Thex showed me that sphere he brought – it’s beautiful up close, really intricately done. He said that every family has one and he brought his to Earth with him when he moved here.”

“I think his parents are coming out to live here at some point, depending if he gets tenure. He’s some sort of historical genius, teaches at Stanford. I think Schori does, too, or maybe does research or something,” Gaila says, yawning again. She pats her stomach absently and groans. “I’m stuffed. Class isn’t tomorrow, right? I need time to digest.”

“Day after the day after tomorrow,” Nyota confirms.

“Last bit of summer fun,” Gaila sighs. “That was it, we’re back at it.”

“You’re not going to keep going to those gatherings?”

“Probably,” Gaila says, a shrug accompanying her yawn this time. “But school is just so… schooly, you know?”

“I, um, suppose I do. And, hey. Thanks for taking me. I know they’re all your friends, but…” Nyota shrugs. “It was really fun. Thank you.”

“See what happens when you spend a couple minutes without your nose dug into a book?”

“Buried?”

“Whatever. Want to get ice cream?”

“Aren’t you-“

“Chocolate ice cream. Sprinkles. On a cone. Maybe two. Whaddya say?”

“Um-“

“Good. I was also thinking yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You didn’t tell me you were Commander Spock,” she says, slipping up behind him in the line for oatmeal in the mess hall and nodding down at the rank stripes on his wrist.

He turns, obviously startled and obviously trying to hide it. He looks so much more formal and austere in instructor blacks, like the Vulcan who talked easily among the others at the gathering has been subsumed into being an officer and a professor.

“I could say likewise,” he finally responds after his gaze has flicked over her own cadet uniform. It’s not wrinkled, she’s sure of it, having pressed it neatly in preparation for the first day of classes but she still resists the urge to smooth her hands over the fabric under the weight of his gaze. 

“I didn’t realize you were also in Starfleet,” she says as she takes the ladle from him and spoons oatmeal into her bowl. “Were there other officers there?”

“Chorenn works in the maintenance department at Headquarters and Eraow works in administration for the dean’s office.”

Nyota frowns at the steam curling up from her bowl. “I’m not sure I met them.”

“I will introduce you if you attend another gathering.”

“Oh,” she says, quickly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That’d be great. I don’t know, though, I have so much work and…” And she’s human and feels a little bit like an outsider in the enclave of off-worlders they’ve created for themselves.

“Dedication to your studies is logical.”

“Thanks,” she says as she pours honey over her cereal. He skips the sweeteners, and the milk, and the dried fruit, so that he’s simply holding a bowl of plain, steaming hot oatmeal. “Well, nice to meet you, again, sir.”

“Again,” he says. “Likewise.”

…

“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” Gaila says when Nyota walks into their room and finds her bent over, her green hands quickly lacing up her shoes. “You never do anything during the semester. Don’t you want to spend all night doing homework?”

“I, uh-“ Nyota looks down at her hands, which are admittedly full of lecture notes she was going to review, summarize, and color code for future reference. “I don’t know, maybe I want to come.”

Gaila grimaces and crosses the room to hug her.

“Sorry. I should have asked.”

“It’s- my hair, Gaila, ow – it’s fine.” Gaila lets her go after one final squeeze. “And I should probably do this, anyway,” she says ruefully to her handful of homework.

“Up to you,” Gaia says lightly, slipping on her jacket. “But you’ll miss all the fun.”

“Cardassian orthography is fun,” Nyota says, scrunching up her nose and sighing out a long breath at the thought of it.

“Your loss,” Gaila says as she tugs her hair out from under the collar of her coat. “Especially when you consider that instead of doing that you could spend the evening talking to what’s-his-face about morphology or whatever he teaches.”

“Who?”

“The Vulcan guy.”

“Oh. Yeah. He teaches morphology? How do you know that? I didn’t even realize he was in Starfleet, I’ve never seen him around.”

“He said something about it a couple weeks ago, and he just got back from a deployment. I meant to tell you but there’s this thing that I do where I don’t think about school all the time. I highly recommend it.”

“Funny, you’re funny, Gaila,” Nyota says as she sets her padds down on her desk, arranging them just so. She flicks on the screen on the top one and scrolls through it, frowning at the lines of text. “Do you talk to him a lot?”

“Hmm?”

“Commander Spock. You seemed to know him a bit?”

“Yeah, he’s nice. Smart. Tall. And when I say nice I mean kind of boring. And when I say smart I mean like a genius. And when I say tall I just mean that he’s really tall. I think he was on the Lexington until just recently and then transferred back to teach?”

“Oh.”

Nyota gets another hug, a quick one this time, before Gaila wraps a scarf around her neck and checks her appearance once more.

“See you later, Ny.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll come if you give me a minute.”

“What? Wait, really?”

“Yeah, just-“ Nyota reaches for her boots, looks down at the uniform she’s still wearing, and begins tugging it off. She pulls on a different sweater, frowns at that one too, then selects yet another shirt out of her dresser. 

“It’s not a fashion show.”

“Two seconds,” she says, stepping into her nicest pair of jeans and fishing her comm and wallet out of her school bag and grabbing her purse off its hook by the door. She drops the earrings she was wearing on the top of her dresser, not where she normally keeps them but Gaila’s half smirking, half glaring at her and she tries to hurry. She grabs a different pair, ones that match her shirt, and shrugs at her roommate.

“What?”

“Nothing. Are you ready or do you want to change your clothes five more times?”

“Ready, I’m ready.”

“Geez, just wear your uniform next time,” Gaila mutters as Nyota reaches behind her standard issue boots for her nice brown, Argellian leather ones that she hardly ever gets a chance to wear. “Who’s going to see you, Yeinydd?”

“Who’s that?”

“The guy in the pot.”

“The Seiliu?”

“Yep. You should see him when he’s not all leafy, like in the winter when he’s molting. He’s hot, if you like tree bark.”

“If I ever find myself attracted to someone with bark for skin, I will keep that in mind,” Nyota says. “And I’m really, actually ready now, let’s go.”

…

“Gaila said you teach morphology?” she asks when she finds herself next to the Commander as they hang up their jackets. Gaila’s already flitted off across the room, either having seen alcohol, desert, or someone attractive. Nyota straightens her roommate’s’ haphazard job of hanging up her coat, and carefully tucks Gaila’s scarf into the pocket before hanging her own next to it. The Commander is even more particular, so that when he’s done arranging his jacket on the hook it looks like it couldn’t possibly be neater.

“I do.”

“I haven’t see you around the department,” she admits. “But I guess you weren’t teaching at the Academy before this semester.”

“You are focusing in xenolinguistics?” he asks and she nods. “What is your surname?”

“Uhura.”

“Ah.” She’s surprised by the recognition that seems to cross his otherwise blank expression. “You wrote a paper on xenosociolinguistics and how caste divisions in Klingon society are reflected in verb conjugations.”

Across the room, Gaila catches her eye and mimes snoring.

“I… yes, I did,” she says, casting a quick glare towards Gaila, who just grins back. 

“Commander Ho shared it with the faculty as an example of particularly strong analysis of quantitative methods,” he says and she feels herself flush. “It was commendable work.”

“Thank you,” she says, trying to not smile too wide. “That’s nice to hear, sir.”

Gaila’s standing behind the Commander acting like she’s swooning and Nyota scowls at her over his shoulder.

“How were you able to find sufficient sources from which to establish a baseline?” he asks, glancing behind him at Gaila, who’s already turned and busied herself getting a drink by the time he looks.

“I used all those old recordings from the talks after the Kelvin incident, when Starfleet was looking into if they were at fault? There’s a lot there.”

“The intervening decades did not negatively affect the quality of analysis?”

“Well it’s so interesting because I thought that might be the case, but most scholars agree that due to the rigidity of the society, their language doesn’t go through the same generation mutations that Terran ones would, or even Andorian or Trill.”

“Fascinating. I have not studied Klingon in great depth.”

“Well I don’t blame you. It gives me a headache to speak for too long.”

One eyebrow twitches and it quite nearly looks like a smile. “I will take that under advisement if I ever find myself with an inclination to become more proficient in it.”

“Watch out for Chillaid, too, then, unless you’re familiar with it already,” she says and then Gaila’s at her side with two drinks and someone’s stepped on Didiza and has her all over the sole of their boot and the Commander is greeting O’nama and she doesn’t have a chance to find out if he knows how to speak it.

…

She has to start refusing drinks after her second one, or probably risk not making it home and spending the evening slumped in a corner of the room as she watches it spin.

It’s already spinning a little, just gently, and she quickly downs a glass of water and then a second one.

“Water is the drink of weakness,” Trav barks at her in Tellarite. He barely comes up to her chin so she’s in the position of having to look down at him to argue back.

“Oh bug off,” Gaila says, stepping between them. Gaila’s taken a shine to the Tellarite celebration of Morath that the evening is in honor of. She doesn’t speak the language, meaning that Nyota has translated more than one argument as Gaila enthusiastically helps celebrate the tradition of disagreeing. Over everything. 

Nyota always knew that Tellarites liked to argue – their language is full of references to it and they have thirty six different ways to tell someone they’re wrong – but being at an evening commemorating the cultural practice is something else entirely.

She pops another bite of digikiki in her mouth – she has no idea what it is, precisely, but it’s delicious and she has no intention of asking in case the answer puts her off of it – and watches Gaila wiggle her nose in an admirable emulation of the Tellarite gesture for when the other person is a certifiable moron.

“So this is something you celebrate every week?” she asks Gouth. She has to glance down to talk to him since he only comes up to her shoulder, a height difference that rather puts her in mind of every time she talks to Commander Spock.

“Regularly,” he says proudly. “But we try to make sure everyone gets to celebrate their major holidays, so we only have Morath day when the schedule’s clear.” He snorts a sigh out his nose. “With all the off worlders coming to Tellar Prime these days, I’m not even sure that it’s all that established of a tradition anymore. When I was young, I remember arguments that involved the whole town. Kids these days seem content to just disagree over what holovid to watch.” He shakes his head, his nose scrunching up in obvious irritation over that fact before he relaxes it again and looks up at her. “I didn’t mean any offense, Miss Uhura, over off worlder influence. I don’t know if you’ve ever visited Tellar Prime but a lot of other cultures don’t have the stomach for what we do.”

“Oh, its… No, that’s fine, I understand.”

“Traditions change,” he says, his snout twitching despondently. He brightens slightly when he scans the room. “But this is nice. A couple years ago the police showed up due to a noise complaint when we were arguing about the decision to let the Acaer into the Federation. That was a wonderful night.”

“I can imagine,” she says diplomatically.

“And if you ever have a chance to get into a debate with the Commander over there, you won’t be sorry,” he continues, nodding across the room to where Spock’s talking with Thaalan. “He won’t yell, which is really too bad, but he also doesn’t get frustrated and give up. I sided against him and Trav last year and we were the last ones to leave. It was marvelous. I was hoarse for days.”

“Sounds terrific,” she says even as she wonders what a hoarse Tellarite would sound like. Just… hoarser? More guttural?

“I’ll let him know you might be up for a round,” Gouth says.

“Trav?”

“No, no, the Commander,” Gouth says, then gestures to his drink and nods off towards the bottles of liquor spread out on Threx and Schori’s dining room table. “Would you like anything?”

“No, but thank you.”

“I’d argue with you but we’ll let you off easy because you’re new,” he says, giving her a small nose twitch that she recognizes as being akin to a wink.

She doesn’t attempt to reciprocate the gesture but gives him a smile in return.

…

“This is exhausting,” she confides in Gaila, who has half draped herself over Nyota but is still gamely trying to finish her drink. “Fun, but I can’t disagree with anyone anymore. Want to get some air?”

“No!”

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Nyota says, tugging at Gaila until she follows her down the hall and out towards the backyard where it’s blessedly cooler and quieter than in the house.

The fresh air feels amazing on her flushed skin and she slips out from under the weight of Gaila’s arm and turns her face towards the sky, breathing in deeply and imagining she can see the stars above them through the haze of the city.

At first she thinks that Gaila’s mumbling to herself, which wouldn’t be for the first time, so Nyota doesn’t look back down immediately, not until she hears a deep, rich, male voice respond to her roommate’s.

“Commander,” she says, blinking at his silhouette against the light shining through the windows of the house. Behind him, the party is outlined in those windows like an ancient silent movie, characters moving against the backdrop of Thex and Schori’s house.

“Spock,” he corrects. “We are hardly on duty.”

“Spock,” she echoes. She tucks her hair back quickly, tugs at the hem of her shirt. “I didn’t see you come out.”

“He was just saying that he doesn’t like the noise, either,” Gaila says, yawning into her palm.

“I quite agree.” She pauses, lets herself grin. “Or maybe I should phrase it that I disagree with the volume.”

“Perhaps,” he allows as he steps more fully into the backyard.

“Is it always so loud?”

“For Morath celebrations, yes. The evening we celebrated Ybo’iveth, we were required to remain as silent as possible.”

“That one was boring,” Gaila says, yawning again. “I mean, it was intellectually stimulating and a fascinating experience to be exposed to such a different culture and all, but tonight is so much better compared to that one.”

“That’s the new year event on Ybo Theta Prime?” Nyota asks, grinning and shaking her head at Gaila.

“Precisely, to commemorate a full orbit of their moon,” Spock answers. “A unique way to mark years, as opposed to the planet’s own orbit of their star, but effective nonetheless.”

“Isn’t that the planet that’s locked in synchronous orbit, so one side’s always dark? And so that the only light they get for half of the year is when it’s reflected off their moon?”

“You are quite well informed,” he says, his head dipping slightly to the side. 

“Well it’s a really interesting culture. They have I think seven or eight words just for the different types of light, which all depend on the weather patterns on the moon and the presence of solar flares and yet like you said, silence is such a part of their rituals and traditions.” She tucks her arm behind her back and grasps her other elbow. “Of course a number of cultures will use pauses or quiet during ceremonies, but I’ve always found that their silence carry more significance somehow, like it’s almost a separate language.”

“Perhaps if we celebrate Ybo’iveth again, you will attend the gathering.”

“I’d like to, very much.” She ducks her head and has to smile at herself. “Though I’ll have to enlist Gaila to help me make sure I leave my padd at home so that I don’t just sit there and take notes the whole time. Probably wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Getting your padd away from you is like taking a bowl of Pulappli worms away from a Gorn.”

“Perhaps notes would be appropriate if you are able to record them noiselessly.”

“Exactly,” she says and is about to ask for more details about the celebration when a loud shout echoes from inside. It has the effect of making both her and Spock turn quickly to look back at the house, and it makes Gaila jump to her feet from where she’d been slouched in one of the patio chairs. 

“N'Takim’s here!” she grins. “Don’t wait up for me, Ny. See you tomorrow.”

“Is everything well?” Spock asks, peering into the windows as Gaila runs inside, disappears from their view for a moment, and then reappears next to N'Takim, joining in whatever argument he’s in with Gouth.

“You know better than I do,” Nyota says, frowning at the same sight. “Though I’m guessing this is her favorite celebration ever.”

Soon, Gaila has one arm slung around N'Takim waist, her curls shaking with the force of her own exclamations.

“She is quite verbose.”

“That’s the nicest way to put it I’ve ever heard,” Nyota grins.

“Have you been roommates for very long?”

“Since first semester. Thought I’d want to transfer as soon as I could and now I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Spock looks at her for a long moment, his gaze shadowed by the dim light of the backyard, but nothing about his scrutiny makes her uneasy. It more just seems like he’s curious, like she’s one more thing for him to learn about, analyze, and categorize.

“The two of you give the impression of being rather dissimilar.”

“Opposites attract,” Nyota says lightly. “Which, speaking of, if she’s going to stay here all night and go home with N'Takim, I think I might head out.”

“I had also planned to return to campus presently, if you would like company on the walk.” She nods and he holds the door to the house open for her. They quickly say goodbye to everyone and she thanks Threx and Schori for having her again, and she seeks out Grouth and Trav to wish them a happy – or disagreeable – Morath day and then they’re out on the sidewalk, the hovercars rushing past them and a swirl of other pedestrians walking home in the crisp air of the early autumn evening.

“It’s nice to get off campus. It’s sometimes hard for me to figure out a good balance between school and having a social life,” she admits as they begin to climb one of San Francisco’s ubiquitous hills. His legs are so much longer than hers that she feels like she’s taking two steps for everyone one of his, and she focuses on not getting embarrassingly out of breath as she tries to match his even gait.

“I have heard that is an issue for many cadets, one which is hardly ameliorated by receiving your commission.”

“Did you find it difficult when you were at the Academy?” she asks, trying to imagine him in cadet reds instead of his instructor’s uniform or the slacks and sweater he’s wearing now.

“I was disinclined towards activities other than my academics,” he says evenly. “It was not until my later years of schooling that I was aware of these gatherings and not until I met Eraow that I was persuaded to attend such a social event.”

“I haven’t seen it mentioned anywhere on the Academy, that there’s a whole group who gets together and does all this. I wonder if other students would be interested.”

“Perhaps,” he says with that incline of his head that seems like he nearly means to nod but is too economical to finish the gesture. “However, Starfleet tends to be an insular community in and of itself, and cadets generally prefer the company of other cadets.”

“Generally,” she says wryly. 

“Generally,” he echoes. “There are notable exceptions.”

“Well, I’m glad I found you all. It’s a wonderful way to spend an evening.”

“I quite agree, Miss Uhura.”

“Nyota,” she corrects. “As you said, we’re hardly at work right now.”

“Then I quite agree, Nyota.”

She gives him a small smile. “A rather pleasant occurrence after such an evening.”

“Yet another statement I find myself in concurrence with.”

She laughs, then, the sound carrying down the street as they continue on their walk.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re going to have to ask Uhura,” she hears Commander Ho say and she automatically turns away from her console, rises, and faces the Commander. And the other Commander she has with her. “This is Cadet Uhura, the one with that paper?”

“Sir,” she says even though it feels funny to call him that. She doesn’t know him as an instructor, despite the fact that he teaches in her department, and seeing him in the language lab is strange. Nice, but strange.

“We have met,” Spock says, glancing at her before turning his attention to Ho again. His hands are neatly tucked behind his back and he looks so polished and professional in his instructor blacks that he’s hardly like the same person she sees at Thex and Schori’s house every week.

“Great, great. The Commander here hasn’t ever seen these new interfaces for our language tutorials, Uhura, do you mind showing him? He has a couple questions about the updated models.”

“What language are you currently learning?” Spock asks as he pulls over a chair and as Ho walks back to her office.

“I have Ociramman called up,” she answers. “But I’m not learning it, I’m just going through and editing some of the lessons.”

“You already speak it?”

“I learned it over the summer,” she explains. “So many of the phrases that are preprogrammed are so generic – where’s the bathroom, I’m lost, what’s your name – that they fit well enough with Standard but don’t really work in other languages, so I’m going through and fixing that.” She enters a few commands and calls up a screen from the second level of the tutorial. “It’s just how they’re all initially programmed, see? Anyway, that’s what I do on Tuesdays and Thursdays from thirteen hundred to fifteen hundred, since I’m sure you were curious.”

She says this last part with a half embarrassed smile, realizing belatedly that he didn’t ask and she doesn’t really need to share the details of her posting with him, especially since it’s not exactly the most interesting thing in the world.

But he’s studying the monitor, leaning forward slightly in his chair to do so.

“You do this for all language tutorials?”

“Only the new ones. Vulcan, Andorian, Tellarite, all of those have been in the database so long that they’ve already been refined.”

“You must then learn the language before you do this?”

“More or less. Just enough of it to figure out the best and most culturally appropriate way to teach it. But I don’t do most of the work for these, really, it’s a lot more difficult to have to code all the vocabulary and construct the grammar structure and just get it all inputted.” 

“Are you the only one doing this work?”

She glances over at him, about to ask why he’s so curious before reminding herself that that’s something she can ask him outside of work, and right then she’s there as a cadet and he, a commander.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Then you must be able to speak every language the Academy currently teaches.”

“Um.” She glances around the lab at all the various terminals, then at the monitor in front of her. “I guess I do.”

“And understand at least the basics of their associated culture.”

“I’m not fluent in all of them or anything. I just learn as much as I need to, really,” she quickly explains. 

“How long does that generally take you?”

She frowns at the monitor, scrolling idly through the list of phrases and their translations as she thinks. 

“Depends,” she finally answers. “Some are pretty complicated, but ones that share common elements with others that I’ve learned already don’t take as long. I don’t think I really know.” She waits for him to say something but he doesn’t, just keeps looking between the console and her. “Was there something specific you have questions about? And don’t you teach computer programming? I’m not sure what I can help you with, you must know as much about these as I do.”

He finally sits back in his chair – or, rather, sits upright, his back ramrod straight.

“The Commander and I are discussing various ways in which to amalgamate the databases we have for universal translators with the language tutorials.” He reaches for the keypad and she slides her chair a little out of the way so that he has more room. His types so quickly on it that she has trouble figuring out what commands he’s even entering before there’s an entirely different program running on the screen.

“I didn’t save-“

“I saved your work.” He taps a couple more keys before pointing to the screen. “The way that we code the universal translators is much different, but the basic principles of the language input remain the same.”

“Well, they’re not designed to teach anyone the language, right?” she asks, looking at what he’s called up. “Just to filter whatever it’s hearing into Standard?”

“And yet there exists the very problem that you are fixing, that basic idioms, phrases, and sayings are, at times, misunderstood or come through as error messages, which can be detrimental to the success of an away mission.”

“I hadn’t really thought about that,” she admits. “You’re trying to change that?”

“I am attempting to. We are designing ways to increase the effectiveness of the program so that it better mimics someone learning a language.”

“Because the translator has to learn the language in real time, as it’s being spoken?”

“Precisely,” he says. “Will you demonstrate the ways in which students use these terminals to learn, and perhaps highlight the most effective methods you have found? This current model has replaced the one that I was familiar with when I was a cadet. Commander Ho said that you routinely help other cadets with language tutorials and would be a proficient guide in such matters.” He pauses and glances over at her. “I did not realize that you taught language tutorials as a cadet.”

“I don’t,” she says quickly, since you have to be a Lieutenant or above to be qualified to teach those. “I just help when students need it, especially if I’m already in the lab.”

“But you teach the students.”

“Yes, but not officially.”

“In your spare time.”

“Um, sometimes,” she says, then pauses and amends her answer. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“I see,” he says, still looking at her.

“Do you have a particular language in mind? Vulcan?” she asks when he eventually looks away again. “Would that be easiest?”

He closes the screen he had called up and leaves a list of available languages on the monitor.

“Perhaps a language I do not speak, so that I can observe the full effect of the tutorial.” With another handful of quick keystrokes he eliminates Vulcan, Romulan, Andorian, and Bajoran.

“You don’t speak Tellarite?” she asks, since it’s still on the list on the screen.

He pauses, that professional efficiency that seems to cling to him when he’s in his uniform slipping just very slightly.

“Please do not inform Gouth or Trav of that fact.”

“Maybe now’s the time to learn,” she suggests, but can’t quite staunch her smile. “And don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Everything going well over here?” Commander Ho asks, walking past them again. “You two getting everything sorted out? Sorry to interrupt your work, Uhura, I know you were hoping to get through, what was it? Which one was it today?”

“Ociramma.”

“Ociramma. That’s right.”

“It’s no problem, sir, this is just as interesting and I’m happy to help.”

“Interesting?” Spock asks when Ho has returned to her office.

Nyota pauses in calling up the first level of Tellarite. “I really meant fascinating,” she tells him and watches his mouth very nearly twist. His reaction draws a wider smile out of her “And, ok, this if the first part, and I changed it from the basic ‘hi, my name is-‘ that we would introduce in most languages.”

“I have am familiar with that phrase,” he says, his brow furrowed as he studies the phonetic translation under the Tellarite. “Computer, play audio.”

“You’ve definitely heard it,” she confirms when the computer’s done playing the guttural Tellarite words. “It means-“

“-‘You are incorrect’.”

“Normally I don’t take people telling me I’m wrong that well, sir,” she says with a grin. “But in this case, you’re right. Which, incidentally, is a phrase that doesn’t exist in this language.”

“This is what you chose as a first introduction to Tellarite?” he asks. “How to tell someone that they are incorrect?”

“It’s useful,” she says lightly. “Now, if you keep going you’ll learn how to say ‘you’re absolutely wrong’ and ‘your facts are the stuff of children’s tales.’ After that we get into to learning how to ask for lunch and where the transporter station is.”

“You will continue to explain the choices you made in such selections?”

She glances at the chronometer. Her shift ends in a half an hour and she was going to get a jump start on her Interstellar Nav homework, which always takes her forever and makes her want to tear her hair out. Between doing that and spending the rest of the afternoon in the language lab with the Commander, it’s a pretty clear choice.

“That is not an order,” he says quickly, looking up from the monitor to catch her eye. “I do not wish to-“

“It’s no problem at all,” she answers, just as quick. “I’ll absolutely stay.”

…

“Kov-skish” he says in Vulcan.

“K’ov’schich” she replies in Romulan. “See? I’m just saying that if it ever comes to it, there are some pretty incredible puns that can be made between the two languages.”

“Despite a distinct cultural disinclination towards such,” he responds and she doesn’t think she’s imagining the way he almost looks like he’s smiling.

It’s the third time they’ve had this debate in as many nights as they’ve walked back to campus together and while trying to convince a Vulcan of the merits of puns in his own language is proving futile, she has rather come to appreciate the debate.

“But we don’t know that Romulans don’t love puns,” she points out.

“That is true. I suppose it is rather ill advised to make such an assumption.”

“So what we really should do is send an emissary to Romulus and ask after their opinion.” She shrugs and grins up at him. “You never know, it could be the deciding factor in the otherwise fraught relationship between the Empire and the Federation.”

“Perhaps you should draft a memo with your specific recommendations,” he says so seriously that he absolutely has to be joking. That Vulcans could joke was never something she would have believed before she met Spock, but it somehow doesn’t seem that far from being impossible whenever she finds herself talking to him. And that’s something that happens more often than not during and after dinners and celebrations at Threx and Schori’s house, not only because they have begun to always walk back together but also because he’s really interesting and smart – and not smart in a boring way no matter how much Gaila pretends he is, but smart in a captivating and compelling way that makes Nyota want to pick his brain for facts and his opinion on anything and everything.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she promises, also quite serious. “Though I admit I’d be worried that Federation diplomats might not understand the solemnity of such a suggestion.”

“The might find it rather unbelievable.”

She squints at the sidewalk ahead of them, bites at the corner of her bottom lip, and then decides she just can’t help herself.

“Punbelievable?” she asks and laughs out loud when the corner of his mouth curls very, very slightly.

“Have you ever learned about a disorder called Witzelsucht?” he asks and she has to shake her head.

“Don’t think so. German?”

“Yes, I believe the word is of Germanic origin. It can be quite a serious mental condition,” he tells her. “It is caused by lesions on the frontal lobe of the brain.”

“And what are the symptoms?” she asks, unsure of where he’s going with this.

“A tendency to construct and tell poorly formed jokes.”

She has half a mind to smack his arm. “That’s not even true!”

“Vulcans do not lie.”

“You’re just cowed by my sagacious ability to use paronomasias.”

“Prothesis?”

“Equivoques.”

“Antisthecons?”

“Precisely,” she says, borrowing his oft-used phrase. “A pun is its own reword.”

She has to look closely to see if she got the corner of his mouth to twitch again since he’s so subtle about it, but that’s ok because she’s found it’s kind of fun to try to draw those quiet, understated smiles out of him, and she rather enjoys the effort it takes.

…

“We had to replace the tiles,” Chorenn explains. She ran into him in the Academy mess hall, where he was working a shift despite his normal maintenance duties over at HQ. His lunch break was at the same time she had a break between classes and she cheerfully sat down next to him, happy to have someone other than other cadets to talk to, since a break from discussing homework and classes is more than welcome. “The ectoplasm from the visiting Hys’ler’ia delegation burned right through the floor.” 

His beak snaps together as he clicks it, and the sound that emanates is rather disapproving. 

“Does Starfleet often host species that cause so much… damage?” Nyota asks.

“The are often asked to go straight to the Federation buildings in Paris, as they have facilities to handle such occurrences, but the dignitaries wanted to see ‘Fleet Headquarters and Admiral Komack didn’t want to dissuade them from negotiating, so he decided that it was fine.” Chorenn’s clicks his beak again. “At least that’s the story I heard.”

“I guess the Admiralty doesn’t spend too much time worrying about the tiles.”

“It nearly burned through to Admiral Machesky’s office, which was the next floor down.”

“Machesky… I thought she was out at Starbase Four?”

“Just got reassigned to HQ here in San Francisco.”

“Huh. I think you must be way more clued into the scuttlebutt of Starfleet with your job. I feel like the Academy is its own little bubble.”

Chorenn nods, the feather fringe that sticks straight up from his head bobbing with the motion. “It is like being on deployment on a ship, or even one of the smaller Starbases or Spacedocks. Everyone knows everyone, but you are less in touch with the rest of the ‘Fleet.”

“Makes me want to work at HQ some day,” she admits. “It must be so interesting to be there all the time.”

“It is acceptable,” he says and the phrase makes her smile because those are so often Spock’s words, but spoken this time through a shiny, gray beak. “However, I have thought often about requesting a transfer to a ship. Perhaps the Enterprise, upon its completion. It will depend on if my chicks have fledged, of course.”

“Of course,” Nyota nods. “You have six, I think you said?”

“Yes. My wife laid eight eggs, but two were not viable.”

“I’m sorry,” Nyota says quickly but Chorenn just shakes his head and slurps up another worm off of his plate.

“It is the way of things. You will have to come over some spring and visit the chicks in their nest when they have just hatched. They are quite loud, but I have learned that humans find them rather charming at that stage. Now they are sullen adolescents and are just beginning to grow their adult plumage, so they do not want to be seen by others.”

“I’d love to,” she grins. “Thank you.”

“I have asked them to come to our dinners at Thex and Schori’s house, and Thaalan has offered to put our celebration of Esuyp on the schedule, but the chicks will not partake.” Chorenn clicks his beak again.

“I guess all teenagers are alike, in some ways.”

“It is so,” Chorenn agrees. “It is disappointing that they do not want to attend our meetings. They are enjoyable, as you have found. We are quite pleased to have a human among us, you know.”

“Oh, thanks. Thank you, I…” she starts and then shakes her head. “I hope so, that I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all. And will you be sharing a holiday with the group?”

“Oh, I- I hadn’t thought about it, actually.” She stabs at her salad and chases a cherry tomato around her plate. “Aren’t you all a bit tired of Terran culture? Isn’t that half the point of getting together?”

“The intention is to share celebrations which are meaningful to us,” Chorenn says gently. “If you come to our gatherings, you are one of us and if you would like to share you should do so.”

“Thank you,” she says again, more seriously this time. “That’s very nice to hear.”

“You are most welcome.”

…

“Where’s the beef?” Gaila asks, again, and Nyota’s heard it so many times she’s given up laughing, and given up groaning, and is about to give up rolling her eyes at her roommate in order to not encourage the continuation of the joke.

“It is directly in front of you,” Spock says because he’s Spock, and that does make Nyota laugh.

“I like Andorian night,” Gaila say, gleefully sliding yet another rib-eye onto her plate. “This is delicious.”

Nyota’s never been a big meat eater and after a few bites of tenderloin, which were admittedly delicious, she quickly ran out of dishes she was interested in trying. Fresh fruits and vegetables didn’t grow in the snow and ice of Andor, so Thaalan had presented platter after platter of meat, both from Terran animals as well as a few he had imported from Andor for the evening.

Nyota is seriously considering dashing out to find a vending machine with a protein bar somewhere, but she still has half a glass of Andorian Ale and there is something rather amusing about watching Gaila eat steak after steak.

Amusing to her, at least. Spock looks like the Vulcan equivalent of nauseous, which is just overly quiet and blanker than normal as Gaila takes an enormous bite of her dinner.

“Yum,” she says around it, grinning. “Wow. I could have this for every meal.”

“I’ll stick to the ale,” Nyota says, watching Gaila swallow her mouthful.

“Is it appealing?” Spock asks, looking at the glass in her hand.

“Yeah. Strong, though. Have you tried some?”

“No, despite Thaalan’s repeated efforts in that regard.”

“Want a sip?” she asks, holding her glass out to him before wondering if she just committed some type of terrible Vulcan taboo. Or Andorian. Or Bajoran. Or Cheilithian. Or Aferraronian. Keeping everyone’s different manners straight is challenging, to say the least, and Thaalan seems to not only be the unofficial leader of the group but the mediator as well. It proved to be useful when Crisaedh turned too quickly and her wing accidently knocked a cup of Tellarite Rum into Yeinydd’s pot. There had been much confusion and yelling, but Crisaedh had shown up with a bag of fertilizer the next week and that seemed to have smoothed everything over between them.

Spock doesn’t seem like she just violated some tenant of his culture, though, just slips the glass out of her hand, his fingers close enough that she can feel the peculiar heat of his skin, even though they don’t touch.

“Palatable,” he declares, handing it back to her with that same wash of warmth over her hand.

“Palatable?”

“Not unpleasant.”

“Is that high praise from a Vulcan?” she asks. “Your expressions of enthusiasm hardly match up with who I’m used to,” she says and tips her head towards where Gaila’s smacking her lips over her steak.

“In that case, it is fortunate that you are a proficient communications track cadet. You appear to be quite adept at deciphering such variations between cultures.”

“Proficient,” she says with a laugh. “Careful, Commander, you’ll make me blush.”

She just gets a raised eyebrow in return, but that’s pretty much as good as a wide grin from him.

…

“So, ok, when you were telling us about the different warriors,” Nyota says to Thaalan, gesturing towards the living room where he had just finished describing the ceremony of Kori ch'Dastal. “Is that story – the way you told it with the drum and the repetition of certain parts – the same as it’s told everywhere on Andor?”

“Yes, exactly in the same words and ritualization. Our mothers, who are taught by theirs, who were taught by theirs, teach us. When I marry, my wife will tell it during our ceremonies, and she will teach it to our children.”

“I’m just curious because I heard a recording of the same story in one of my classes and it sounded different, so I guess that’s just regional dialects?”

Thaalan had told the entire story in Andorian, and Nyota had been pleased to find that she was able to follow along with it, at least for the most part. Even those who couldn’t understand had sat quietly, captivated by his voice and the sound of the beautiful hide drum he had played while he spoke.

“It may have been a clan in the southlands,” he says. “Flatlanders. They are not from the mountains, as my people are.”

“I’m just really impressed that the accents are so distinct, still, with so many generations since Andor established global communication. Look at Earth – we all speak Standard and we all have nearly the same accent.” Nyota shrugs lightly and swirls the last of her drink around in her glass. “I feel like half the reason I wanted to study languages is that my grandmother made sure that my brother, sister, and I grew up speaking Swahili as our mother tongue. That tradition is so lost here on Earth.”

“I did not know you spoke other Terran languages,” Spock says from beside her. She wonders how long he’s been there, since he’s often so quiet and still, even in the midst of the party, like he prefers to simply absorb what’s going on around him rather than actively partake in discussions.

“Maneno mazuri kama maua yana rangi yake,” she says. “’Nice words are like flowers: they have their own color.’ And Swahili has the nicest words, if I can say so.”

“Andorian,” Thaalan says with a wide grin splitting his blue face and his antennae twitching with amusement. “Is quite a bit more beautiful.”

“Vulcans are hardly inclined towards competition,” Spock says evenly. “However, I might admit a rather strong inclination towards my own language.”

“You grew up speaking Standard at home, too, I thought,” Thaalan says and Spock nods, tipping his head in acknowledgement.

“That has not rendered me without a preference for one over the other,” he admits.

Nyota glances up at him. “Why did you grow up speaking-“

“Thaalan, Gouth wants to know if you brought more ale,“ Schori says, coming out of the crowd. “Oh, I’m sorry for the interruption.”

“What’s your favorite language?” Thaalan asks her.

“Bajoran,” she says lightly. “Of course.”

“Will you teach your young one Standard as well?”

“At home she will hear the language of her people.”

“She?” Nyota asks and Schori breaks into a broad grin.

“She.”

“Except when we come over, then she will hear the languages of many people,” Thaalan says, extending one blue hand to rest over Schori’s stomach. “We await you, small one.”

“Can you have everyone here with a baby in the house?” Nyota asks and Schori laughs.

“Only human infants require such exacting environmental preferences,” Schori says. 

“Maybe I’ll forgo purely human genetics if I ever have kids,” Nyota says with a smile. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Andorian children drink ale from their bottles, before they even have the teeth for chewing meat,” Thaalan says proudly. “Oh, the ale. Right, right. It’s in my – I’ll just come get it,” he says, then turns back to Nyota and Spock. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Thanks for sharing tonight,” Nyota says before he steps away. “Your story was beautiful.”

“Of course, my dear, we are pleased you were able to attend.”

When he and Schori are gone, she finds herself standing next to Spock and it feels for a moment like it’s just the two of them alone in a crowded room.

And then she yawns and quickly covers her mouth with the hand that’s not around her drink.

“Sorry.”

“You are fatigued.”

“Yeah, I had a paper due this morning.” She examines the remainder of her drink before deciding she doesn’t want to finish it. She nods to the kitchen and he follows her as she walks over to rinse out her glass. “I was up late writing it and then I wanted to go to the gym this morning and –“ She yawns again. “I’m assuming that I can’t exactly look forward to an easier schedule once I get my commission?”

“Perhaps more regular hours, but the same amount of time committed per week.”

“Great.” She sets her glass on the counter. “I might head back to my dorm, then.”

“In order to rest up for the remaining duration of your career?” he asks as he follows her over to where their coats are hung.

“Exactly.” She peers past him as she winds her scarf around her neck, but nobody’s standing nearby that she has to say goodbye to, and N'Takim and Gaila are cuddled up together on a couch, so she figures she’ll hardly be missed.

Spock has his own jacket on before she can ask if he’s walking back with her like he normally does. He holds the front door open for her and closes it carefully behind them before joining her out on the sidewalk.

The air is refreshingly crisp and it wakes her up a bit, makes her think that she might actually have the energy to stay for longer, but she’s already outside and Spock is too, so she starts up the hill that leads back to the Academy.

“I almost went to Andor last summer,” she tells him, not that the silence between them is uncomfortable, but rather that she enjoys their conversations. “There was a research posting to study sub-dialects and I applied and got offered the position, but the dates didn’t line up with the Academy’s calendar so I couldn’t do it. Which might have been good because I don’t think I own enough warm clothes to have been comfortable.”

“I admit that it is not a planet that I am necessarily inclined to visit, especially recreationally.”

“So Vulcans don’t vacation on Delta Vega, even though it’s practically a hop, skip, and a jump?”

“A shuttle trip of several hours?” he corrects and she laughs and nods. “There is only a single Starfleet outpost on the planet, hardly a vacation resort. I do wonder if it was in Andor’s system if the planet would be of more interest, or at least attract more engineers or scientists who would be willing to accept positions there.”

“Living on a tiny ice planet with Vulcan as the nearest populated place to go to warm up?” she asks. “Talk about weather extremes.”

“Indeed.”

She’s about to ask him where – or if – Vulcans do vacation when her stomach rumbles loud enough that he can hear it and she has to laugh at herself as she presses one hand over her abdomen.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, shaking her head so that her hair briefly falls like a curtain between them before she laughs again and brushes it back behind her shoulders. “I didn’t eat that much, I can’t handle that much meat.” 

“I concur.”

She crosses her arms and tucks her hands against her ribs. It’s finally getting chilly, with summer well behind them, something that not only the weather reminds her of, but the growing amount of work she has for her classes.

But, it’s not like she doesn’t have a couple free minutes.

“Want to uh-?” she asks, tipping her head towards the line of restaurants on the other side of the street. “You must be starving.”

“Not literally,” he answers but glances both ways and crosses quickly, so that she grins and has to half jog after him.

“What do you like?”

“I am receptive to recommendations,” he says and she spends way too long calculating what might have good vegetarian choices and nixing burritos since they just seem to messy for someone like him, and vetoing all deep fried options, before she spies a food cart halfway down the block.

“Soup?” she asks.

Which is how they end up sitting on one of the benches just inside the Academy gates, watching students and professors walk across the quad, and steaming containers of soup curled in their hands.

“How’s yours?”

“Quite acceptable.”

“I guess it just happens sometimes, that dishes from someone’s home planet don’t line up with everyone’s dietary needs,” she says, slowly stirring the black bean soup she ordered to cool it. She tentatively dips her spoon into it, decides it’s still too hot and goes back to stirring.

“Indeed. It is difficult enough to be responsible for preparing a representative sample of your culture’s cuisine. Accommodating individuals beyond that effort was decided to be inefficient and contrary to the intended goal of the evening, if too many allowances were to be made.”

“Have you hosted an evening?”

“Yes, Fa-wak-glansu fell just before I deployed on the Lexington and I was able to celebrate it in such a manner.”

“And if you’re not around everyone, or when you were on the ship and holidays came up, you just…”

“Honor them in considerably more solitude, as you seem to have already guessed.”

She blows on a spoonful of soup, considering that. Next to her, Spock seems to have no qualms about the temperature and is halfway through his own, eating so neatly and economically the she wouldn’t be opposed to him giving Gouth and Trav – and Gaila, maybe – some lessons.

“I admit I don’t know much about your culture,” she says finally. “Do you have other holidays coming up soon?”

“Arivn’van-kal’e will be celebrated in conjunction with the rising of Las'hark in several weeks.”

“That’s a, um, it means star? Or a type of star?”

He nods, swallowing another spoonful of his soup. “It is a star the is only seen for a number of weeks every year, and its appearance has been celebrated for centuries.” He dips his spoon back in his soup before turning his attention out across quad. “It is curious that even though we now have an explanation of why Las'hark is usually not visible, which is due to a very small asteroid belt that obscures it during much of the year, we still herald its arrival. For centuries, we did not know why it appeared when it did and I assume that added to some of the reason for the ceremony surrounding it.”

“Well it’s still important, right? The food, the music, gathering together. It’s amazing to me that so many cultures have such similar aspects of their celebrations, even with different languages and light-years between where and when these traditions originated.” She pulls her spoon through the thick soup and studies the way the steam curls and rises. “It’s beautiful really. And will you?” she asks, nodding her head back the way they had come from and in the general direction of Thex and Schori’s. “Share Arivn’van-kal’e with us?”

“In all likelihood, though it depends on my work schedule. I am tasked with completing a number of training simulations for the fourth year command track cadets and the deadline has as of yet not been finalized.”

“Oh.” She manages a bite of her soup. “Well I hope that you get a chance.”

“Noted.”

“And if you need a hand, I’m not exactly wallowing in free time but I’ll admit that I don’t really know anything about Arivn’van-kal’e and that I’m rather curious.”

“That is kind of you to offer,” he says, neatly spooning up the remainder of his soup and somehow doing so without dragging his spoon across the bottom of the container.

“Not going to give me any hints about it?” she asks, braving another bite even though hers is still really hot. “I might need to know what I’m volunteering for.”

“Are you an accomplished baker?”

“Um, no.”

“That is unfortunate,” he says. “I will find a task for you to perform, regardless.”

“I’m not going to get any details other than that baked goods are involved?”

“I did not say that baked goods are part of the celebration, I only inquired after your baking skills. And you will simply have to manage your rampant curiosity,” he answers.

“Are you teasing me?” she asks.

“That is hardly part of my normative cultural expression.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” she points out.

“And I do not intend to,” he says very seriously and she grins at him.

“Well what about Fa-wak-glansu. I obviously missed that one.” She takes another bite and frowns at her soup. “I’m sorry, I’m taking forever. I can walk and eat if you need to go.”

“I am under no obligations this evening and furthermore, I hardly believe that based upon your current rate of consumption, we will truly find ourselves here for the remaining duration of the known universe,” he answers and she wonders why he left the party, then, if he had nothing to get back to on campus. “Fa-wak-glansu is a celebration of when Surak emerged from the Forge.”

“So what do you do to commemorate that? Eat pastries?”

“Eat your soup,” he instructs, the corner of his mouth turning up just slightly. “And I will tell you.”


	4. Chapter 4

“But I shouldn’t have been marked down, then.” Gaila shoves her plate away and crosses her arms, pinning Spock with a hard stare across the table.

Nyota pauses with her finger marking her place in her text, staring between them.

“Professor Kiani-“

“Professor Kiani is a…” Gaila starts, then mutters something in Orion under her breath that Nyota can’t quite catch. Gaila groans and buries her face in her palms and Spock just waits until she’s pushed her hands back into her curls and looks up at him again. “Ok. Sorry.”

“Professor Kiani simply sought to correct the way in which you coded this section.”

“But then she should have put in the rubric that that’s how she wanted it!”

“Perhaps,” Spock says. “However, I believe she assumed that you would use the techniques she taught you in class.”

“First of all, I didn’t go to class because I already know how to do all of this, and second, the way I did it was better. It’s neater, has fewer – and by fewer I mean zero – bugs, and is more easily replicable.”

“There is a certain logic in having standard programming across all Starfleet computer technicians,” Spock says.

“But isn’t there also, then, a logic in having just a better standard for that stupid standardization?”

“I do not disagree.”

Gaila huffs out an angry laugh and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I hate school.”

“Perhaps you would consider taking your case to the administration. Your reasoning is compelling and not incorrect,” Spock says, sliding Gaila’s padd back towards her and wrapping his hand around the mug of tea he had been drinking when Gaila had found Nyota and him in the mess hall and summarily started complaining to Spock about her most recent problem set. He doesn’t go to turn his own padd back on, nor resume any of the other work he has spread in neat piles across the table in front of him, just watches Gaila as she continues to silently fume.

“The deans won’t even listen.”

“Do you have evidence of such attitude from them?”

“I just know.”

“May I ask how?” 

“Nobody takes me seriously.”

“It is in their duties to their position to take student opinions seriously. I would encourage you to contemplate my suggestion.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Gaila shoves her padd back in her bag. “And thanks, I guess.”

“Um,” Nyota says when she’s gone. She kind of feels like she should apologize for her roommate, but at the same time, that’s just how Gaila is. What would be rude for a human is just the way she expresses mild irritation, something which Spock seems to understand because he doesn’t appear to be particularly perturbed by such a display.

“It is of no consequence,” Spock says before she can finish deciding exactly how ok he seems with Gaila’s outburst. “I understand that for some it is not particularly easy to be the lowest rank in such a hierarchical organization.”

“I sometimes feel like Gaila’s going to rise through those very ranks, become an Admiral, and overhaul all of Starfleet. Or become the President of the Federation or something.”

Spock glances from his mug up to where Gaila disappeared through the door. 

“I would judge either of those scenarios to be probable.”

Nyota just smiles and sips at her own tea, raising one shoulder towards her ear in a shrug. “Well, it’s good that she’s here to make her mark. I give it twenty minutes before she’s drafting that message to the deans.”

“You say that as if you do not believe you will have an equally substantive impact over the course of your career.”

He does that, sometimes, she’s learned. Read between the lines of what she says, or catch something in her tone that proves he’s much more perceptive and attentive than she would have ever thought he would be.

“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging again and fiddling with her stylus. She rolls it back and forth on the table with a finger and studies the way it looks as it passes over the grain of the wood. “I don’t think it’d ever cross my mind to code something differently than how a professor wanted me to, just because I thought it was a better way. If I even knew how to code, I mean.”

“I can teach you if you are interested,” he offers. “And you have proven yourself to have excellent research and analysis skills. I do not believe that one must affect something so large as all of Starfleet to have an appreciable affect during their career.”

“Tell that to Kirk.”

“You are acquainted with Cadet Kirk?”

“He lives in my dorm, down the hall from Gaila and me. And he could stand to be taken down a few notches, thinks he’s going to be the next best thing to hit the stars after we graduate.”

“You do not share his certainty that your career will be influential?”

“I’m going to be sitting in some communications bay calibrating transmitters and if I’m lucky, configuring universal translators for a captain and first officer to bring on their away missions.” She rolls her stylus over until it bumps into her padd and can’t go any further. “Comms is grunt work, it’s not, you know, the front lines of exploration. The best I can hope to do someday is to be a bridge officer, and if I’m lucky work for a captain who will occasionally bring me to translate something in person, instead of just having me code translations from the ship.”

“The study of unknown languages is essential to Starfleet’s mission of exploration.”

“Ok, sure, but you scientists, you’re actually designing experiments, deciding on research protocols, writing up mission reports. Ops is just… work. Doing other work for other people so that they can do their work.” She shrugs again. “I’m not complaining, I love it, and if I’m lucky I be able to still publish research, but I hardly would anticipate I’d be beaming down on exciting away missions every other week.”

“I would not anticipate that you would be in a communications bay for very long after you receive your commission.”

“I hope not,” she says. “I mean, it wouldn’t be too bad, probably still better than just a research posting somewhere.”

“What would be your preference, if you were able to decide?”

“Well, I want to be on the Enterprise, like everyone does, but I’m also realistic about my chances.”

“How so?” he asks carefully, like he has no idea exactly what he’s supposed to say to that.

“Everyone’s going to apply and you get to the Academy and everyone’s a genius and I’m smart but I’m-“ she shrugs, which she seems to be doing a lot, and waves her hands at herself. “Everyone’s somebody here. Kirk is George Kirk’s son, and I have this other friend who is this xenomedicine hotshot, and there’s this other guy with I think the Academy’s best piloting scores to date, and this teenager – if he’s even a teenager he might be eleven or twelve for all I know – who’s a TA for my Intersteller Nav course, and you’re you, Gaila’s the first ever Orion to enroll in the Academy and is apparently planning to completely redo the computer programming curriculum. I’m just human and good at school and I get really good grades – really, really good grades, actually – but that’s it and I don’t stick out in any other way. I’m… normal. Starfleet normal, but normal nonetheless.”

“You are not normal,” he says and she wants to laugh and ask him if he thinks she’s weird, but his tone is so serious and his gaze on her so intent that she just ends up shifting in her chair and floundering for a response.

“Um.” She runs her hand over her hair, then smooths her fingers over her padd, then starts playing with her stylus again. “Thanks.”

“Even if you are regulated to configuring universal translators, I believe I would be partial to receiving one you had worked on.”

“What?” she asks, looking up from where she’s dragging her stylus across the table. “What does that mean?”

“I returned to Earth after completing my deployment on the Lexington in order to accept Captain Pike’s offer to serve as first officer on the Enterprise.”

She drops her stylus off the edge of the table and she hears it hit the floor, and then hears it bounce, and then hears it skitter across the floor as it rolls under her chair.

“Wait, wait, stop,” she says, jumping up, flustered and clumsy as she pushes her chair to the side, kneels, grabs the offending stylus, and returns to her seat. She manages to make the chair squeak overly loud as it scrapes against the floor when she pulls it back towards the table. “What? Wait, what?”

“As I said,” he begins and she swears he’s somehow laughing while maintaining a completely blank expression. And not unkindly, but more like she could not have been more utterly human in that moment than if she had tried. “I am the first officer of the Enterprise.”

“Geez, Spock, lead into it next time,” she says, pressing her palm to her cheek and scrubbing it over her face.

“If in the future I accept such a position, when I share that fact with you I will endeavor to do so,” he promises. He waits until she’s wiped the flecks of dirt stuck to her stylus from the floor, placed it neatly next to her padd, and folded her hands on the table, before he continues. “Will you apply for a posting on the Enterprise after you graduate?”

“Won’t construction already be complete and-“ she pauses, slotting in this new information that when the Enterprise leaves Earth, Spock will be on it. “You all will be gone? Probably with a brand new full complement of crew?”

“I do not believe construction is slated to be finalized before your class graduates.”

“Oh.” She wraps both hands around her mug of tea and feels a smile pull at her mouth. “Ok. Then, yes, I’d apply. See what happens.”

“Excellent,” he says, nodding. “That is excellent.”

“Probably won’t go so well if I don’t pass this quiz, though,” she says, sighing down at the study guide she has in front of her.

“High Romulan?” he asks, peering at her padd and managing to read it even though it’s upside down for him.

“I got the bright idea to try to learn all three dialects,” she explains. 

“As I already told you,” he says as he pushes his work aside, picks up her padd and pulls it across the table towards himself, “You are not normal.”

“Well, I might be regretting it, so there’s that.”

“Regret is illogical,” he says lightly. “What is the translation of lesh'riq?”

“It’s a type of pumpkin.”

His eyebrow rises precipitously high on his forehead before his mouth quirks and he looks up from her padd to meet her gaze.

“You are being facetious.”

“Yes. It’s a term for a citizen of the Empire who has performed a great service.”

“And enok-kal fi’lar?”

“Uh, a type of epic poetry? No, like the telling of a poem. It’s a verb, the noun is emok-tal fi’lak.”

“Correct. Bol-threshan?”

“Are you going to quiz me on all of these?”

“Perhaps,” he says and she grins into her tea as she raises her mug to take a sip.

“That’s the word for a guy who’s the first officer of the flagship but just never seemed to mention it for weeks.”

“Curious that the Romulans would have a word for such a person.”

“Hmm. I’m considering recommending it to be adopted into Vulcan vernacular. I might even write a letter to the High Council.”

“I wish you good fortune in your efforts,” he says and she snorts a laugh into her mug, grinning at him as he spends his time choosing the next word to test her on.

… 

“We live nowhere and everywhere,” O’nama says in its lyrical voice. It’s somehow capable of harmonizing with itself and Nyota has to concentrate on its words and not just on listening to how beautiful they sound. 

She also has to concentrate on not letting herself lean against Spock, where she’s pushed up next to him on the couch. Gouth settled on her other side, leaving her without the type of personal space between her and Spock that Vulcans seem disposed to, and every time she shifts, her hip or shoulder bumps against his. She feels overly aware of the contact, the way he’s fever-hot even through layers of clothes, and the way she’s probably breaking a half dozen taboos regarding how close you can get to a Vulcan.

“Sorry,” she whispers when Gouth shifts, again, and her elbow knocks into Spock’s, again.

He just glances down at her, his eyes warm and dark, before he returns his attention to O’nama.

“We travel like we have always travelled, and like we will always travel, with the space between the stars as our home, and the planets we visit as places to rest,” it continues in that melodic way that warms Nyota’s chest. “I am here on Earth and here on Earth I celebrate Qiameth with you, the day of the year where we leave where we have been so that we can continue onwards.” O’nama pauses, and then forms its mouth into an approximation of a human smile. “Of course, I will not leave as I work at UC Berkeley and my contract is not up,” it says and chuckles rise from around the room. “However, on this day of leaving, we bid goodbye, and give thanks for the place that has supported us, so that we continue to travel as we have always travelled, and like we will always travel, out among the stars.”

“Starfleet should just recruit them,” Gaila says, later, when everyone’s tugging on their coats and saying goodbye to each other. Celebrating Qiameth involves mostly leaving the party, so it’s an early night and Nyota finds herself a bit sad that the group is already dispersing.

“Because they already travel so much?”

“Think of how easy it’d be to be gone from home for years at a time, if your home is just out there,” Gaila says, gesturing up at the sky above them once they’ve stepped outside. 

N'Takim follows the motion of her hand and they all stare up at the dark sky, squinting to try to see the stars beyond the lights of the city.

“It’d be nice,” N'Takim agrees, tucking his coat around himself and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “But if we’re going to have long discussions about what species are best suited for prolonged space travel, can we do it inside?”

“By inside do you mean inside a bar?” Gaila asks and N'Takim smiles and leans over and kisses her. 

“You know I do, babe.”

“You coming, Ny?”

“I, uh, yes, sure, I guess,” she answers, trying to peer back into Thex and Schori’s house but they have curtains on the first floor windows that face the street and she can’t see if anyone else is going to come outside right then. “Should we maybe wait and see if anyone else wants to come?”

“If you want,” N'Takim says but his teeth are already chattering and Nyota has to remind herself that he comes from a planet even warmer than Vulcan and has only assumed a human form in order to blend in on Earth. A human male form. A really attractive human male form, which Gaila helped him customize, which was kind of hilarious as he tried out different noses and chins, but has the detrimental effect of making a lot of women and lot of men stare after him and Gaila wherever the two of them go. And that’s only how he looks most of the time, so that his friends can tell who he is – Nyota has more than once walked into her dorm room to find Gaila in bed with a beautiful woman, only to find herself introducing herself, again, to N'Takim.

“We can go now,” she says with one last look at the closed front door. “I was just- You’re freezing, let’s go.”

They’re halfway down the block before she hears footsteps behind them, and all three of them turn to find Spock, bundled in a heavy coat, and Thaalan in a light windbreaker.

“Where are you all going so fast?” Thaalan calls after them.

“The bar!” Gaila shouts back. “Wanna come?”

“Do we?” Thaalan asks Spock. “I have a meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t be boring,” Gaila instructs.

“You should,” Nyota adds. “Come I mean, not be boring.”

“We don’t want them thinking we’re boring do we, Spock?”

“I-“

“We don’t,” Thaalan assures him as he and Spock catch up to them. “It’s probably not logical.”

“That is not-“

“What bar?” Thaalan asks, rubbing his hands together and pointing his antennae up and down the street. “The Warp and Coil?”

“I think their happy hour just ended,” Gaila says with a deep frown. “How about the Salty Nacelle?”

“Or Moe’s,” Nyota suggests.

“Boring,” Gaila tells her. “And therefore you all would probably love it.”

It is kind of a boring bar, but it’s also quieter than Gaila’s usual choices, which means Spock only has to repeat himself once to the bartender in order to get across the fact he doesn’t want anything.

“Really?” Thaalan offers in a wheedling tone. “This is your big chance to buy such lovely cadets a drink.” He pauses, then frowns down the bar where Gaila already has four drinks in front of her, numerous cocktail umbrellas sticking out of each one. “Or, rather, buy Nyota a drink. Nope?” he asks without giving Spock a chance to answer. “My treat, my dear, what would you like?”

“Red wine, please,” she says with a smile up at him. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”

“You really don’t want anything?” Thaalan asks after receiving his drink and downing half of it in one gulp. 

“I am disinclined towards consuming alcohol.”

“And yet you’re in a bar,” Thaalan says with a grin. 

“At a bar.”

“Prepositions,” Thaalan mutters. 

“Prepositions are awesome,” Nyota tells him and Thaalan just takes another long sip of his drink, his antennae pointing at her accusatorily, though he can’t keep it up and eventually smiles.

“Coffee, Spock?” he asks, shaking his head once more at Nyota. “I know you pretend to hate it, but-”

“Vulcans do not pretend.”

“Have you tried it ever?”

“No.”

“You know, you’re probably genetically predisposed to like coffee. Isn’t your mom from Seattle?”

“Your mother’s from Seattle?” Nyota asks before she can help herself.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Sorry, Spock I didn’t realize she didn’t know,” Thaalan’s saying quickly. “I didn’t mean to-“

“It is no matter,” Spock says smoothly. “My mother is human,” he explains to Nyota who tries very hard to cover up how surprising that fact is and probably fails.

“And enjoys coffee?” she asks, just to have something to say.

“She is rather fond of the beverage.” He pauses, his brows drawing together slightly. “’Fond’ might be a slight understatement.”

“Spock and I went on a hunt for some good stuff, so that he could bring her some when he went back to Vulcan last year. And if you can imagine a Vulcan and Andorian trying to find high quality coffee when we both hate shopping, you have a good idea what that afternoon was like.”

“It was successful in the end,” Spock adds.

“Except we almost gave up. Twice. And then we went into that one place? And that Tellarite tried to help us? And I ended up arguing with him for so long it was dark outside when we left? I told you we should have just replicated some.”

“It hardly would have been the same, nor fulfilled the purpose of such a gift. Furthermore, you should perhaps not have engaged a Tellarite in a debate over the merits of beef versus lamb.”

“But that’s exactly it, Spock,” Thaalan says, sipping at his drink again. “What we need to do is to convince your mother to want some meat from Earth.”

“She does not eat-“

“Vegetarians,” Thaalan says with a grin, draining the last of his drink and pulling a handful of credits from his wallet. 

“The vexation of acquiring the coffee was offset by her joy in receiving it,” Spock says. 

“Well, I’m glad I can help,” Thaalan replies, clapping a blue hand on Spock’s shoulder. “And if you want to shop for loin roasts or hunting daggers give me a call.”

“I will take that under advisement,” Spock says seriously and Thaalan squeezes his shoulder again as he laughs hard enough his antennae shake.

“Have a nice night you two, I have to get out of here before I have any more or I won’t make my meeting tomorrow morning,” he says, still chuckling. He waves goodbye to Gaila and N'Takim, where they’re half entwined with each other a couple seats down the bar, and then disappears into the crowd.

Spock doesn’t really look at her after Thaalan’s walked away and she can’t think of anything other than horribly inappropriate questions about his genetic makeup, so she just focuses on drinking her wine.

“So do you get to see your parents often?” she asks, finally, because that seems appropriately benign. “With them so far away on Vulcan?”

“My mother will be coming out for Arivn’van-kal’e,” he says and something about him seems to brighten, though she doesn’t think anything in his expression actually changed. “My father has an obligation on Ganymede that week so I do not believe he will be able to celebrate with us, but it will be fortunate that I can be with my mother for the holiday.”

“Isn’t there a big Federation conference on Ganymede coming up?” Nyota asks, squinting into her wine and trying to remember the newsreel she half watched while on the treadmill the other day. “All those diplomats getting together for something or other?”

“Indeed. That was quite a specific recollection, I commend you.”

“Stop,” she laughs, the tension that Thaalan left them with breaking and she kicks at the leg of his barstool. “You obviously know, what is it for?”

“The Federation is hosting a delegation from the Alerrawia Empire. Their species cannot survive on Earth, so they have chosen to meet on Ganymede instead.”

“Right, that’s right. And your father does what, exactly, that he’ll be there?”

“He is the Vulcan Ambassador.”

“No.”

His eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“Yes.”

“Alright, what other interesting facts about yourself are you harboring?”

“None, I believe.”

“No way, you were holding out on me with the first officer thing, don’t think I’ve forgotten about that. Let me guess, you’re also a descendent of Zefram Cochrane.”

“I am not.”

“Ok, you invented replicator technology.”

“As I am sure you are aware, that technology has been in use since the early twenty first century, when 3-D printing was first invented and disseminated widely.”

“Ok, ok, you were the one who figured out how to reroute antimatter transducers and increased warp efficiency by 400 percent a couple years ago.”

“No, but I am acquainted with Lieutenant Commander West.”

“Of course you are. Let me think – you were the one who won all the Procyon Award a couple years ago? First time it’s been awarded since 2236?”

“That is not the award I won upon my graduation. I believe that was Commander Xe. She was the class above me.”

“Tau Crucis Honor Society then?”

“I did not apply.”

“Seginus Distinction of Honor?”

“Lieutenant Commander Damar was my class’ recipient.”

“The Cochrane Award, then?”

“Among a number of others.”

“Spock! C’mon, really?”

“If you must know, then, yes.”

“Wow. I feel like I’m sitting next to a celebrity,” she says, glancing over him. “Really? You really won that?”

“Indeed. It is public record, you can check for yourself.”

“I’m going to have to,” she says, sipping at her wine. “That’s incredible. Congratulations.”

“I would find it unsurprising if you, too, found yourself if not only a contender for it, but the recipient for your class.”

“There’s a lot of competition.”

“I can conceive of no reason you would not be qualified to receive it.”

“That’s nice of you to say, but there’s a lot of cadets who are working towards that award.”

“And as I told you before, you are not normal.”

She tries to hold back her laugh and can’t, giving him a smile over her wineglass. 

“Thank you, I think,” she says lightly, putting her glass back down on the bar. “Normal or not, I don’t think cadets who get the marks I do in Interstellar Nav are really contenders for it. That class is going to drag down my entire grade point average. Don’t think I’m pleased about that fact, either, but I can’t find my way around a star system with a map, a compass, and a trail of bread crumbs?”

“Is that not the tools you are given? A chart, a plotting device, and the signal of a homing beacon?”

“Funny, Spock. And you get my point. I’m like O’nama out there, always travelling between the stars. Except I would be lost because I failed Interstellar Nav and have no idea how to get home.”

“I believe the Federation has coopted a phrase once used in reference to an Italian city, that all interstellar flight paths lead to Earth.”

She gives him a smile, but she can feel that it’s half hearted, and she stares down into her wine. She draws a finger along the stem of the glass and only looks up again when he ducks his head to try to meet her gaze.

“I just… So my parents moved away from Earth when I started the Academy,” she tells him. “And I thought it wasn’t a big deal, since I was moving away from Mombasa anyway – that’s where I grew up, it’s in Kenya – and I’m youngest, so they were pretty clearly waiting for me to move out so they could sell their house and travel. But since then, it’s been really, just, weird? Strange? I have my dorm room here, and they live out on Alpha Sceptri IV, and my brother lives in London except he’s always off planet for work, and my sister just moved with her wife to a colony on Tau Geminorum Prime – they’re terraformers so it was a great job for them to take – but it’s…” She takes a sip of wine and studies his shoulder instead of looking at him. “It sometimes feels like this isn’t home anymore.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry, that was suddenly really maudlin. We can go back to talking about how you’re totally going to spring on me some fact about being related to Surak, or someone.”

“I am.”

“Spock.”

“My father’s house can trace their lineage back to the Time of the Awakening.” He pauses, then tips his head slightly to the side. “I will admit that it is hardly as impressive as it might be. I believe Surak’s descendants now number above a hundred thousand, after so many generations.”

“You are full of surprises,” she says.

“Perhaps I will compile a compendium about my life before we see each other again.”

“I’m going to need it highlighted and color coded.”

“I will provide an index, if that will be useful.”

“And a thorough table of contents. With subheadings, please.”

“Logical.”

“Will there be a quiz? Multiple choice?”

“Perhaps short essays, instead, in order to prove sufficient mastery.”

“I am really good at essay questions,” she warns him. “But I bet you’re one of the hardest graders at the Academy.”

“I have been told that. And I believe I may, logically, be required to include a section with a map in order to test your understanding of the area in which I spent my childhood.”

She groans and lifts her wineglass to her mouth to take a long sip from it, before wondering if he’ll recognize the fact she’s not really upset. But he’s just watching her, his gaze even and soft, and doesn’t seem particularly perturbed.

“Are places you walked your dog included? Or not dog… do you have pets on Vulcan? Is that something you do?”

“I had a sehlat. And in the interest of full disclosure, I did attempt to play fetch with him. Once.”

“What happened?”

“He picked me up and deposited me before my father.”

“Oh my God. Are they that big?”

“I was quite small.”

She glances over him, the way he’s so perfectly straight on the barstool, his height still apparent despite the fact he’s sitting, and the way he carries himself with that Vulcan grace, the long, lean line of his back, with his sweater hugging his shoulders and the fabric bunched in tiny folds across his flat stomach. “I’m trying to imagine this.”

He gives her that tiny quirk of his mouth and she studies the way his lips curl.

“You said your father’s house, not yours,” she says after taking another sip of wine. That small smile falls from his face and she immediately regrets mentioning it. “Never mind.”

“I find…” He trails off, something so out of character for his normally efficient and economical way of speaking that she can’t help but take notice of it. “I rather understand the experience of not being particularly attached to a certain place, or conceiving of such as a home.”

“Do your parents not live where you grew up anymore?”

“I meant, rather, that quite often I did not perceive it as a place I belonged.”

“And what about Earth?” she asks and he looks at her for a long moment before answering.

“At times, it has begun to.” 

…

“You should send me your navigation problem sets,” he says when they reach the Academy gates. Gaila and N'Takim are half a block behind them and on the other side of the street, having just said goodbye before they continue on to his apartment for the night.

“What?” Nyota asks, thinking that Spock was about to bid her goodnight as well and then head down the path that leads to the faculty apartments.

“Your professor, Doctor Greaves, mentioned the other day after a faculty meeting that the problem sets are where cadets lose the most points in his class, rather than the exams. If you would like, I will review them with you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she says. 

“I would be remiss in my duties otherwise,” he says lightly. “And furthermore, I believe that Cadet Kirk is also attempting to win the Cochrane award and I find that I would much prefer you to hold that honor.”

“Kirk,” Nyota mutters. “Ok. I’ll send them to you. If you don’t mind.”

“I do not, or I would not have offered,” he assures her, then pauses for a long moment, watching her. “And Nyota?” 

“Yes?”

“I do not share aspects of my life with many, as I often find the resulting questions intrusive.”

“I’m, I’m sorry if I-“

“Hardly. I am attempting to thank you for your interest.”

“I hope you didn’t find me too curious,” she tells him quickly. “You’re an interesting guy.”

“Not at all. It is… pleasing to discuss it with you.”

She watches him for a moment, how the light from the streetlamps plays over his face, accentuating both his severely Vulcan features as well as the softness that seems to play around his eyes more often than not.

“Night,” she says, finally, after a long moment has stretched between them.

“Goodnight, Nyota.”

The final, short walk back to her dorm feels peculiarly lonely, like she should have somehow stretched the evening out longer, stopped time in Thex and Schori’s house, in the bar, so that she could still be around everyone and not alone in the chilly night air.

She unlocks the door to her and Gaila’s room and the silence of the space makes her, for one crazy moment, want to call Spock and see if he wants to get a coffee or something, and makes her think that if she were to jog back downstairs, he would somehow be right where she left him, like she could just step back into the warmth their conversations always leave her with.

But he has work tomorrow, too, and he’s probably very logically back in his quarters by now, doing whatever it is that he does. She tries to imagine him in his home, but she has no idea what faculty quarters are like, and so just pictures him with a cup of tea in his hand, probably working, if she had to guess.

Or maybe doing something really interesting, some hobby she would have never thought about him having, some dimension of his life she wouldn’t guess with how private he is. Or not, private, really, with everything she’s learned about him recently, little details and features of him slipping through his restrained manner, hinting at the fact that he’s far more complex and compelling that she ever might have thought.

He’s probably busy, whatever it is that he’s up to, even if it’s something adorably sweet like calling his mom. She should just leave it be, she decides after she sends him a message with her most recent problem sets attached.

Except that her room is so incredibly quiet and maybe his quarters are too and before she can either realize what she’s doing or talk herself out of it, she has her comm out and has looked up his number in the Starfleet database, which is maybe kind of creepy or weird, but he told her twice that she’s not normal so she’s just going to go with it.

“Um,” she says when he answers, his voice crisp and professional. “Hi.”

“Nyota?”

“I just wanted to say that my scores on those problem sets are embarrassingly abysmal and I don’t want you to think I’m so bad at navigation that I’m going to get lost walking to breakfast.”

Something in the background shifts, like he’s moving something around and she has a horrible, sudden thought that wrenches her gut, that he might have someone there with him.

But then the noise stops and it’s just his voice, clear and warm coming through her comm, and whatever it was in her that tightened eases again at the sound.

“If I see you disoriented as you walk around campus before morning classes, clearly famished, I will be forced to consider that your statement was not accurate.”

“I’ll only be doing that if I drink too much of that Andorian Ale,” she says lightly. “I sometimes think Thaalan just walks around Thex and Schori’s house pouring it into any glass that isn’t already completely full.”

“I have, upon numerous occasions, reminded him that I feel no effects due to the consumption of alcohol and yet he continues to offer it to me.”

Nyota laughs softly, kicking off her shoes and drawing her legs up, so that she can sit cross legged on her bed.

“I hope I’m not bothering you, by the way. I just wanted to call and tell you that.”

“To look for you before breakfast?”

“Spock,” she drawls around her wide grin. “You’re terrible. No, that I don’t, you know, share atrocious grades with most people, so please don’t judge me.”

“It would be illogical to judge you upon the outcome of a performance at which you attempted your best,” he says.

“Oh, ok, good. Thanks.”

There’s a soft clicking on his end of the comm and a notification on her own pops up that her most recently sent message has been read.

“Those are hardly abysmal scores,” he says, but even despite his words she can’t help but cover her eyes with her hands, like he was in the room with her.

“Just ignore the grade, please,” she groans. “And listen, you don’t have to do this now, I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

“Are you otherwise occupied?”

“No,” she says, looking around her empty room. “Just hanging out.”

“I am available, if you would like.”

She looks at her room again, so quiet and still, then down at her comm. “Yes. Definitely.”

“For your first answer,” he starts and she bites at her lip, dreading this but maybe less so with his even, measured voice on the other end of the line, deep and rich and like he doesn’t mind a bit that she didn’t get perfect scores.

She flips onto her stomach, grabs her stylus, her padd, and sets her comm on her pillow.

“That one was hard.”

“It is designed to test your ability to isolate the signal of a homing beacon against other subspace anomalies.”

“But I feel like I should be good at that,” she protests and she can quite clearly imagine him nodding in response.

“It is the fault of teaching discrete subjects at a time. If this was a practical exam and you were at a communications station on a bridge simulator, you would have the tools necessary with which to isolate the other variations in the recording. However, without those instruments-“

“Just calculate the variable difference?” she asks.

“Precisely.”

He waits, patient and silent, while she copies that down.

“I’m coming for your award, mister,” she warns. “Ok, problem two.”

“You are ready?”

“Yep,” she says, sticking her stylus in the corner of her mouth and scrolling down on her padd to reach the right question. “And hey – thanks.”

“You are most welcome,” he says and she settles in deeper into her bed, ready for his explanation.


	5. Chapter 5

“You never get tea in here,” she tells Spock when she finds him in the break room of the Xenolinguistics building.

“Rather, I have never gotten tea here when you have been here to witness it.”

“Oh. Really. And when does all this tea getting happen, exactly?”

“Once, during the first week of semester.”

She snorts out a laugh and reaches past him to pull a mug out of the cupboard. 

“Doesn’t it make you wish your office was here instead of over in Computer Sciences?” she asks.

“I admit that the Xenolinguistics Department has a much superior tea selection.”

She peers into his steaming mug. “What’d you choose?”

He reaches up to the top shelf of the cupboard, his uniform pulling along the long line of his body as he does so. 

“This,” he says, smoothing his instructor’s jacket with one hand and extending a tea bag with the other. “It is Bajoran. Thex and Schori occasionally serve it.”

“Is it good?”

His mouth quirks, just slightly. 

“I would not drink it otherwise.” He spins his mug towards her, so the handle is facing her. “Would you like to sample it?”

“Yes, thank you.”

It’s spicy and a little bit bitter and also different from flavors she’s used to in a way that is really interesting.

“Is it caffeinated?” she asks, setting his mug back down. “I feel like I’ve had nothing but coffee all morning and I don’t want to just sit there shaking in front of my translations.”

“I do not believe so,” he answers, then waits, both hands wrapped around his mug as she pours hot water into her mug. “Do you have a considerable amount of work you must remain alert for?”

“Midterms,” she says and he nods.

“I believe my students are under similar strain.”

She unwraps the tea bag and grins up at him. “I can’t decide if you would definitely be the hardest professor at the Academy or undoubtedly be the hardest professor at the Academy.”

“You are taking Konicek’s course in Xenoneurolinguistics?”

“Yep.”

“I have been told I cannot assign more work than she does nor create more difficult assessments, so I believe you have had a comparable experience,” he says and she smiles and nods.

“Reigning you in? I like it,” she says as she watches her tea steep. “So what are you up to, being over here?” 

“I am between meetings. We are discussing changes to the Advanced Morphology curriculum for next semester.”

“Are you going to teach it again?”

“Perhaps. I also have an opportunity to be the Interspecies Ethics instructor, which would be enriching and rewarding. However, if they are scheduled at the same time I will have to choose.”

“How will you decide?”

“Logic.”

“Is that…” she starts then pauses as she thinks over her words. She tugs at the string of her tea bag and watches it bob in the water. “I don’t know how to ask this, so maybe it doesn’t even make sense, but is it hard to make decisions like that? Especially if you want to do something that’s not strictly logical?”

He pauses with his mug halfway to his mouth, then sets it on the counter.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

His long fingers curl over the top of his mug, his hand big enough to cover the mouth of his mug so that steam only escapes when he removes it again and she watches the vapor curl and twist over his hand. 

“It is, at times, a difficult endeavor to not simply use logic to justify a decision one is inclined towards making.”

“I can imagine.” She pulls her tea bag out of her mug and drops it in the trash receptacle. 

“However,” he says, looking up from his mug to meet her eyes. “I have found that in many ways, good decisions are not demarcated by the need to conform the final verdict to spurious logic.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed. There is a tenant, oft spoken of in my culture, that what is simple and straightforward is often also logical.”

She pauses, wracking her memory for why that sounds familiar. “Eik-veshtaya to'ovau kau lu veshtaya ri glazhau goh na'kastorilaya t'kashan?” she asks in Vulcan. “That’s the translation?”

“Admirable,” Spock says, inclining his head towards her. “Though I hardly find myself surprised.”

“But how do you know that you’re not just justifying something to yourself?”

“Meditation, a certain degree of self-knowledge, the consultation with others,” he lists, raising his mug to take a sip of his tea. “Also, identifying what the emotionally driven decision would be and comparing that to one based solely on logic.” He pauses and sets his mug down again, his slim fingers tracing over the handle. “That does not mean, however, that emotional decisions and logical ones never coincide.”

“Oh?”

“Especially as pertains to personal relationships.”

“Oh.”

“It is logical to cultivate such connections.”

“Oh,” she says, again, and flounders for another word. “Good. That’s good, that that’s logical,” she says and winces at the ways she’s fumbling to speak.

“It is,” he says quietly and only then does she realize that the bell’s ringing for the next class and that it has been for some time now.

“I have to-“ she says, pointing at the door.

“Have a pleasant afternoon.”

“You too,” she tells him and finds it more difficult than it should be to walk away from him.

…

“Wow,” Gaila says, her breath puffing in a white cloud in front of her mouth. “Awesome.”

“The atmosphere on Bajor renders meteor showers in various colors,” Thex says. “It is far superior.”

“My jacket won’t close,” Schori says, tugging at the fabric and trying again, valiantly, to cover her growing stomach.

“Here,” Thaalan offers, taking off his own jacket and draping it over her lap. “It’s far too hot as it is.”

Everyone shakes their heads at him, which just makes Thaalan smile.

Spock, sitting next to Nyota, seems particularly frigid, his hands tucked deep into his pockets and a knit cap pulled down over his ears. It makes him look quite nearly human, those distinct eyebrows and points of his ears hidden as they are.

He’s been talking quietly with N'Takim about orbital mechanics and Nyota’s been half listening, half just absorbing the sound of his voice, even and measured in sharp contrast to the rising and falling tones of the others around her.

Above them, the meteors arc, blazing across the dark sky and Gaila gasps as a particularly bright one leaves a bold streak across the black.

“Totally worth the drive,” Gaila declares. “Despite the fact it’s freezing cold out here in nowhereville.”

“It is technically above freezing,” Spock corrects, but he sounds like that fact might be something he would disagree with, if he was the type of person to disagree with facts. His nose and cheeks look chapped green and despite how Vulcans are renown for their superior strength, intellect, and endurance, Nyota’s rather happy to be human in that moment.

Not that she’s not chilly, but Spock seems to be veritably shedding heat and she’s particularly happy that he’s sat down next to her.

“Look,” she says, tipping her head back and pointing with her chin towards another startling bright meteor – she, too is reluctant to take her hands from her pockets, so she just nudges Spock’s elbow with her own. “It’d almost be enjoyable if half of my brain wasn’t busy plotting navigation vectors for each one.”

“Spock’s getting into you brain?” Gaila asks, abandoning where she’s been sprawled on the frosty grass to climb into N'Takim’s lap. He wraps an arm around her waist and another around her shoulders, his chin resting on the top of her head.

“That’s what happens when I capture him in his office for hours at a time and make him help me plot axis of rotations of starships, right?” Nyota asks, finally tearing her gaze from the night sky to find Spock watching her.

“Plotting navigational vectors is an admirable pursuit,” he says and she shakes her head.

“If I’m going to plot something, I’d rather it be sentence structure.”

“Untangling anastrophes?”

“Precisely,” she says, borrowing his own word.

Schori passes her a bottle of whiskey, wiping her thumb along the mouth where she just took a sip.

“Would you like some? It’s delicious.”

“Are you- can you?” Nyota asks, gesturing to Schori’s stomach.

“Humans,” Schori says in explanation, her eyes sparkling. “Bajorans are not so effected.”

“Gotcha.”

Nyota takes the bottle from her and tips it back, the whiskey burning a long, hot line down her throat.

“Is that enjoyable?” Spock asks, eyeing the bottle in her hand.

“It’s-“ she pauses to cough, pressing her fist into her chest as she does so. “It’s, wow, it’s really good.”

He looks at the bottle for a long moment before he pulls a hand out of his pocket. His fingers are close enough to hers when he takes the bottle that she can feel a wash of heat from them, a stark contrast to the crisp air and cold glass of the bottle.

“Palatable,” he declares and she jerks her gaze back to the sky, instead of staring at how his mouth looks pressed against the bottle, the slight dampness the liquor has left behind on his lower lip.

“Know what would be really palatable?” she asks, a shiver going right through her. “Coffee.”

“Tea?”

“Something. Want to go back down to that diner?” she asks, tipping her head down the hill that they had just climbed up, towards the small restaurant where they’d left Spock’s car.

“Don’t leave without us,” Schori instructs as Nyota and Spock stand up.

“Yeah, we’re not wimps, unlike some who can only stand to be outside for thirty seconds,” Thaalan adds.

“We have been here for forty three minutes and-“

“I’m coming, too,” N'Takim declares, starting to move Gaila off of him and Nyota feels something a lot like disappointment that he’ll be joining her and Spock, which is crazy because she likes N'Takim a lot. “I’m going to turn into a ice cube.”

“Nope,” Gaila corrects, refusing to budge from her seat on his lap. “Nope, nope, nope. My butt’ll get wet and my pants will be gross all night.”

“Take them off,” N'Takim suggests and everyone groans.

“You two,” Thaaln says.

“Them two?” Schori asks, her eyes dancing as she points to Nyota and Spock. “What about these two?” she says and Nyota feels herself start to flush a little.

“I’m going to have to start dating,” Thaalan says, leaning back on his elbows and crossing his legs at the ankles. “Find some nice Andorian woman to keep me company while you all whine and complain about being freezing cold.”

“You should see Thaalan in the summer,” Thex tells Nyota and she laughs.

“You coming?” she asks N'Takim and Gaila shakes her head.

“He’s not,” Gaila says, tugging his arms closer around her. “Have fun being boring.”

“We’re not boring,” Nyota says and glances up at Spock. “Right?”

“Correct.”

“You two,” Schori says again, smiling at them and it just makes that heat creeping across Nyota’s cheeks burn a little hotter. “We’ll be down soon.”

“Have fun talking about verbs,” Gaila calls after them as they start to walk down the hill.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Thaalan asks and when Nyota hears them all laugh, she walks just a shade faster, which is ok because she thinks that maybe Spock picks up his pace, too. 

“Um, so, I did well on that quiz,” she says, because she’s a linguist and trying to find words is not something that should be so difficult for her.

“Excellent,” he says and when she looks up at him, there’s a green stain on his cheeks that doesn’t seem to just be from the cold.

“Yep. Successfully plotted a shuttle’s course from the moon to Mercury without hitting Venus which, frankly, is a success for me,” she says, forcing her mouth to form words and her brain to supply fully formed, coherent sentences despite how the starlight is falling on his face and the way that her arm bumps against his, twice, because they’re walking so close together.

“It would be most unfortunate if that were to occur.”

“Luckily,” she says, stepping through the door of the diner when he holds it open for her – it’s the old fashioned kind, on hinges, and she has to brush past him – “I am really good at finding food.”

“What an excellent skill to have.”

“Coffee,” she tells the teenager behind the counter, who only slowly looks up from his padd before putting it aside with about as much enthusiasm as Nyota can generally muster for her Interstellar Nav homework.

“What else?” he asks, snapping his gum and looking between them.

“Coffee and maybe some- oh, crap.”

“Pardon?” Spock asks.

“My wallet’s in Gaila’s purse. I didn’t want to bring my own bag, so she carried my stuff and I’ll just run back up and grab it.”

“It is of no consequence,” he says, sliding his credit chip out of his own wallet.

“No, but-“ she starts and she’s freezing and doesn’t want to go back outside but she also doesn’t want Spock to pay for her.

“Coffee and?” he prompts.

“Are you getting anything?” she asks him because maybe it’s ok if he pays, if he’s ordering something too.

“Tea,” he tells the server, who nods and wanders off to prepare it. Spock drops his attention to the pastry case and studies it, while she watches the way his dark eyes flick over the choices. “I admit I have never tried a number of these.”

“Oh, you totally should. I mean, they’re really sweet and unhealthy, but look at that pie.”

“How sweet?”

“Is sugar shock really a thing for Vulcans?”

“It is not healthy to consume so much sucrose.”

“First of all, way to not answer the question. Second of all, you don’t eat pie because it’s healthy, you eat it because it’s delicious.”

“What is the filling?”

Nyota bends to examine it behind the thick glass, holding her hair back with one hand so that it doesn’t fall into her face as she does so. “Blueberry.”

“Is it good?”

“It looks amazing.”

“Are you going to order a piece?”

“Um, maybe. Yes. But I couldn’t eat all of it.”

“A slice of blueberry pie,” Spock tells the server when he returns with a mug of tea and places it on the counter next to Nyota’s coffee.

It’s just the two of them in the diner, and when the waiter shuffles into the back room and fails to reappear, they’re left alone, sitting at a table next to the windows with a rapidly diminishing piece of pie between them.

“Good?” she asks.

“Exceptional,” he answers, but when she glances up at him, thinking he’ll be looking the dessert, probably with that look of contemplation on his face, his eyes are on her, instead.

When she smiles at him, flustered, he gives her a tiny, nearly imperceptible smile back, she feels her heart start to race and finds herself hoping that the rest of their friends won’t be wandering back down the hill for a good, long while.

…

“Are you Commander Spock’s student?”

“No, sir.”

“Were you ever?”

“No.”

“Do you intend to be?”

“I’ve already taken Advanced Morphology and Interspecies Ethics, and don’t intend to take any of the courses in the sciences he teaches.”

“Good. Very good.” Commander Ho pauses and looks down at her padd again, still without explaining to Nyota exactly why she’s there answering these questions. “You can’t TA for him.”

“I wasn’t going to, sir, I’ve already been a TA when Iani taught Advanced Morphology and I work in the language lab programming tutorials for my now and have no plans to change jobs.”

“Excellent. You can’t have a close relationship with a professor and be under their direct supervision, even if the professor in question is a Vulcan and would probably be very logically offended by the suggestion he would show favoritism.”

“Oh.” Nyota flounders for words, which is a strange occurrence in her life. She’s a linguist, she can figure out what to say to that. “He and I aren’t, um-“

“Doesn’t matter, Uhura,” Ho says, holding up a hand. “Close friends or married, the regulations are the same. When you graduate you can be directly under his command, but not at the Academy.”

“Yes sir,” Nyota answers, blinking at the suggestion that image brings to mind. “I understand.”

“And I am of course only interested in my students as pertains to their budding Starfleet careers, and only interested in my colleagues in the ways in which pertains to their teaching, but,” Ho says, a smile flitting across her face. “Damn, Uhura. Nice.”

“Um-“

“Dismissed, Cadet.”

…

“I had a weird conversation with Commander Ho,” she tells Spock over her Interstellar Nav problem set. They have their empty lunch dishes pushed to the side of his desk and her work spread out between them in a way that she hopes isn’t too messy for how orderly and neat his office is.

“Are you raising the subject as a way in which to avoid discussing this?” he asks, nodding down to the padd between them.

“No, but good idea.”

“What did she have to say?”

“It was, uh-“ Nyota starts, then can’t quite figure out how to exactly describe it, not in a way that doesn’t seem so awkward to bring up that she can’t imagine actually articulating it to Spock. Instead she spends a long moment studying the landscape painting he has on his wall, which she realizes belatedly must be of somewhere on Vulcan. “You said I should apply for a position on the Enterprise.”

“I did say that. Is that what you discussed with the Commander?”

“No. Yes. Sort of. But I wanted to ask what that would be like? If I applied for a position on the Enterprise when you’re XO?” His brows draw together slightly and he puts his stylus down from where he’s had it hovering of a correction on her problem set. “Because we’re-“ she starts, trying to clarify what she means. She gestures back and forth between them before realizing she doesn’t really have a word. “Um, friends.”

“I can assure you that our association would have no bearing on your future posting,” he says. “No matter what type of relationship we have.”

“No matter what type of-“ she starts to echo but then a group of officers walk past the door they’ve left open and she cuts herself off. “Great. Thanks. I just wanted to make sure.”

“That is what your meeting with the Commander was regarding?”

“Yes, but it was…” She searches for a different descriptor other than just ‘weird’. Or strange. Or baffling but also not, because she knows exactly what the Commander was insinuating even if she can’t actually say that out loud while looking at him. “Nothing. It was nothing. What’d I do wrong on that question? Because I still have a lot of trouble plotting warp vectors and I think I messed that one up.”

“You incorrectly calculated the velocity of a ship under half impulse power.”

“Damn,” she says before she can remember that she’s in his office and it’s the middle of the work day, and they’re both on their lunch breaks but he’s still helping her with school work, and somehow everything that’s so easy and normal when they’re away from the Academy sometimes isn’t when they’re in uniform, on campus, and the lines between professional and personal have slipped into some gray area she doesn’t really understand.

But he just ignores her comment, underlines a section of her work, and slides the padd back across the desk.

“Attempt to recalculate this,” he says, standing and pushing his chair in neatly. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please.” She frowns down at the problem and at the neatly written note he left in the margin. “I expect a pretty tasty cup, even though the tea selection in this department is reportedly subpar.”

“I will do my best.”

“Wait,” she says as he steps past her on his way to the door. He’s so tall that she has to crane her neck to be able to look at him. “Can you explain this to me before you go? Otherwise I’m just going to sit here and stare at that Andorian translation of Beowulf that you have on your bookshelf.”

“I have heard the anticipation of a desired object can induce humans to complete their faster work in order to receive it.”

“Are you going to bribe me with that book?”

“Is it necessary?”

She looks over at it, considering. “I’m used to just working for top scores in the class, but if that’s on the table…”

“It is on a shelf,” he says from right beside her and when she turns back from looking at his bookcase, he’s knelt next to her chair and is reaching for her padd, his body close enough to hers that she tells her self to shift, slightly, so that she’s farther than him, but she doesn’t.

He slides the padd from her suddenly slack fingers and she finally gets her mouth to work again.

“No, I meant-“

“I am aware,” he says with that curl at the edge of his mouth he gets instead of a smile. But she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to smile back at him, not with him so incredibly close to her, and not with them in his office, and not with the door open, and not with the way she’s trying to listen to his words but instead is simply hearing how rich his voice is and how quietly he’s speaking since he’s right next to her.

“Got it,” she says when she realizes, belatedly, that he’s finished explaining the solution and she’s just been staring at how his mouth moves when he speaks which really shouldn’t be so interesting except he’s really, really close to her and it’s kind of hard not to look at him.

And he’s just watching her in return and this near to each other she can see the warm chocolate brown of his eyes, and the tapered, upswept line of his eyebrows, and that spot between them that creases when he’s thinking about something, and how dark the fan of his eyelashes are.

A boot squeaks against the tile in the hallway.

“Tea,” he says, stands, and is out the door before she can blink.

Only then does she take a deep breath, and then another one, and then a third, all the while wondering whether her heart will have stopped hammering by the time he gets back.

…

“So I need to make a bunch of food today,” Gaila says, poking her head into the bathroom while Nyota brushes her teeth.

“What?” she asks, holding her hair back with one hand and spitting into the sink. She stares at Gaila in the mirror. “Why?”

“It’s Sunday.”

“And?”

“And it’s Orion night!”

“And you just found out?” Nyota asks, wiping her mouth on a towel and continuing to stare at her roommate. 

“No, I knew, I just didn’t do anything about it until now. And I need your help.”

“You need my help because you didn’t do anything about it until now, is what you meant to say. And also please. And that I’m the best roommate ever. And that you understand that I have a busy schedule and commitments to my classes and-“

“And that I feel like if you asked him, Spock would let us use his apartment to cook, so can you do that? For me? And can we skip the part where you say that you ‘feel weird’ about it for twenty minutes and then you call him anyway?”

“I am not going to invite us over to Spock’s apartment,” Nyota says, reaching for her face wash. “I am going to finish getting dressed, have some coffee, and spend the day with my Cardassian Orthography paper that’s due on Thursday.”

…

“I’m sorry I invited us over,” Nyota says when Spock lets them into his apartment. “And I might need some coffee. But in exchange I brought some really interesting articles on Cardassian Orthography.”

“Nice place!” Gaila says, brushing past them and stepping into Spock’s quarters. “Wow. Hey, it’s so clean, too.”

“Don’t let her touch anything,” Nyota instructs.

“Are the articles written by Harcrow? I believe she is one of the leading scholars in that field.”

“One by her, and one co-written by her and Ocano.” Nyota sorts through her bag and pulls out the padds for him. “I’m going to cite them in the paper I’m not going to have time to write today.”

It’s not until Spock’s scrolling through them and Gaila’s dumping groceries on the counter in his kitchen that Nyota takes the time to look around and tries to assess just how strange she feels being there.

Slightly strange, she decides, because she really, really had no intention of ever just barging into Spock’s space, but now that she’s here it’s so warm and welcoming and so him that she feels immediately at ease.

And it’s literally warm, the heat cranked up so that Nyota finally feels the chill of late fall recede from the walk over to his apartment building. As she slips off her jacket and hangs it up on his coat rack, she takes the opportunity to look around, taking in the few pieces of Vulcan art – a landscape painting over his desk, not dissimilar to the one in his office, a sculpture on the end table next to his couch, a print of Vulcan calligraphy hung above his couch – the row of Vulcan spices on the counter in his kitchen, a bowl set out with a half dozen apples and a kaasa fruit, and the orderliness of everything, not in a stuffy way but where everything is so precisely arranged that the effect is calming and soothing.

And then she forgets all that, walks past him into his living room, and reaches out to touch the arced neck of his ka’athrya.

“I didn’t know you played,” she says, making herself put her hands behind her back so that she doesn’t pluck a string.

He’s followed her over and when she turns to look at him, he’s standing closer than she thought he would be. It’s not the first time that’s happened, and she realizes she can’t pinpoint when, exactly, she started finding their bodies a half a step too close to each other.

“I was not aware you are interested in that fact.”

“Beyond belief.”

“Truly?”

“No, I can probably get you to believe how excited I am about this.” She twines her fingers together at the small of her back and continues staring at it, very, very much wanting to play it. Or to hear him do so, which might be better.

“I’m fine without you two,” Gaila calls from his kitchen. “Don’t worry, I’ve got all of this covered. No need to help.”

“Good,” Nyota calls back. Spock’s staring back towards his kitchen, his eyes slightly narrowed and his mouth parted like he’s on the verge of action, but he catches her looking at him and suddenly his focus is wholly on her again.

“Are you familiar with the instrument?” he asks, inclining his head towards the harp.

“No, but I always wanted to learn. I played piano and the flute and I wanted to play the violin but my sister learned it first and she was sure I only wanted to take it up because she did.” Nyota reaches out and touches the smooth wood again, quite unable to help herself. “I sang a lot, too, when I was growing up.”

“You should hear her sing!” Gaila yells from the kitchen. 

“No, no, it’s not, I don’t-“

“You might need to get her drunk!”

“Gaila, you are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” Nyota groans, one hand covering her eyes.

“I’m your best friend for life and you know it!”

“The worst part is that she is,” Nyota confides in Spock, who’s just standing there, one eyebrow raised. “I bet it’s illogical to need to consume a mind altering substance in order to perform a musical talent?”

“Yes.”

“So, any chance that you’ll give me a demonstration?”

“Will you sing?”

“Nope,” she says. “I mean, maybe someday, but not today.”

“Illogical,” he says, but he makes the word sound warm.

He tunes the harp quickly, his hands sure and nimble and she watches the way his shirt clings to the long line of his arm curled around the body of the instrument.

“Do you have any requests?” he asks, his fingers poised over the strings.

“Anything,” she says and when he starts playing, she has to choose between closing her eyes to listen to the music and watching the ways his hands look, the way his expression eases into calmness the longer he plays. 

The music makes her feel warm somewhere deep inside, the lilting notes and deep harmonies stirring her in a way that she never thought Vulcan music could, but somehow only makes sense that it would.

Gaila has drifted into his living room by the time he’s done, her hands and shirt covered in flour, and plopped herself next to Nyota on the couch.

“Awesome,” Gaila declares.

“That was lovely, Spock, thank you. Whose composition was that?” Nyota asks, her mind retracing the winding melody. “Sakkath? Or, wait, Stonnak?”

“Mine,” Spock answers and Nyota tries very hard not to gape at him. “Do you find you prefer Sakkath or Stonnak’s work?”

“No. Oh my God, not at all, that was incredible, I can’t believe you wrote that.”

“That is unfortunate, as there is a concert next week highlighting their compositions, along with that of Taurik, at the Vulcan Embassy,” he says. “However, if you do not enjoy their pieces, you may not want to attend.”

“Stop,” she grins at him, at that half raised eyebrow, that slight twist to his mouth, and that way he teases her. “I really, really want to go. Taurik, really? I learned how to play part of his arie'amp a'rie'mnu fugue, or at least what could be translated to piano but I’ve only ever hear recordings of his work.”

“You will have to send me the arrangement,” he says, standing and replacing his ka’athrya on its stand. “And I will attempt to procure tickets for the concert.”

“I’m sure you were about to remember to invite me, too,” Gaila says, “but I happen to not want to spend my free time going to fancy concerts when I could be doing basically anything else.”

“You play the piano?” Nyota asks, her mind churning over Spock’s comment even though something about the image of him doing so is shorting out her brain.

“My mother thought it would be neglectful of my heritage to only have the experience of Vulcan musical culture.”

“And I really, definitely, don’t need help getting everything ready for tonight,” Gaila adds. “So there’s no reason to feel like you should offer to help.”

“Did you have a piano on Vulcan?” Nyota asks.

“There is absolutely enough time for me to make everything by myself,” Gaila continues.

“My mother’s brother lives in Seattle, and when we visited I would make use of theirs.”

“Orion cuisine isn’t complicated, so I definitely have everything under control.”

“Didn’t you say your mother is coming soon? Like really soon, right? Next week? Are you going to go visit your family when she does?”

“And I’m sure I can find my way around the kitchen without any help. Unfamiliar appliances and utensils are no problem, don’t worry about it.”

“The week after next, and yes, we will travel to visit them.”

“And it’s not hard to cook for like thirty people, all of whom are different species, so don’t worry about that at all.”

“That’s so great, I can’t wait to meet- wait. ‘Whom’? Gaila? Really?”

“Finally,” Gaila grumbles. “Seriously.”

“How may we be of assistance?” Spock asks, his gaze flicking over the flour that’s still sprinkled on Gaila, and now on his couch, before he looks towards his kitchen with increasing alarm crossing his expression.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Gaila says primly.

…

“Se'aiy use'a,” Gaila says from where she’s sitting in front of Thex and Shori’s coffee table and pointing at the various dishes Nyota and Spock helped her make all afternoon. “Re'ass. And this one is Nuhe'a.” Gaila grins and rubs her palms together in a gesture Nyota knows she’s picked up from humans. “Ok. So. These are all species specific, so Thex and Schori, you two take this one, and Thaalan, that one’s for you, and someone please pour this in Yeinydd’s pot. Didiza, you can absorb this – maybe if you just get into the bowl? There you go, that’s it. Good, right?”

“You have not explained the point,” Thaalan says, holding the glass that Gaila handed him and staring at the milky vapor that fills it. Gaila had made Spock mix that one up three different times until she had been satisfied that it was made correctly.

“I believe that if Gaila were to tire of computer programming, she would make an excellent chemist,” Spock whispers to Nyota, so quietly and so close that she imagines she can feel his words on her ear. He accepts two glasses from Trav and at Gaila’s motion, hands the larger one to Nyota.

“I’m sometimes a little frightened by how adept she is at basically everything,” Nyota admits just as quietly, tipping her face up to his so that he can hear her better.

“Enough from the legume display room. Ooh! I made a rhyme!” Gaila grins and claps her hands together in delight. “And there is no point. Or, well, there is but I just don’t see all of you engaging in marathon group sex, so this is what we’re doing instead.”

“Thank you for the consideration and cultural sensitivity,” Thex says, looking like he’s trying not to smile.

“But if there’s anyone in here who’s interested…” Gaila says hopefully, glancing around and N'Takim sits up straighter, nodding and smiling at everyone. “Well, if you change your mind, let us know, we’re ready at a moment’s notice. And, ok, everyone drink up. Or eat up. Or start absorbing.”

“Is this hazardous?” Schori asks, one hand over her stomach and the other holding a small wafer Gaila passed her. Nyota had helped make it and she frankly has no idea what’s in it because Gaila did something complicated and quite likely illegal to Spock’s replicator to produce a number of the ingredients, but had smelled pretty good, a lot like the miresa Schori had made the first night Nyota had met everyone.

“No,” Gaila says, looking like she’s surprised by the question. “It’s just supposed to taste good.”

“Is there a reason behind the tradition?” Gouth asks, examining the tall glass of caramel colored syrup Gaila had poured for him and Trav.

“No, it’s just-“ Gaila frowns, looking slightly helpless and at a loss for how to explain. “This is just what we do. Well, when we’re not doing other stuff that’s a hell of a lot more fun, frankly. We make food that people like.”

“Why?” Trav asks. “To celebrate a specific holiday?”

“No, just because. We don’t have holidays like all of you do, we just celebrate for no reason, and Thaalan said I could do Orion night tonight, so I did.” Gaila crosses her arms and stares around the room. “Why does there have to be a point?”

“You made us all of this just for the enjoyment of consuming it?” Schori asks.

“Yes! Well, Spock and Nyota helped because I made them, but yes. It’s just supposed to make you feel good, that’s it, end of story.”

“Are these intoxicants?” Thex asks.

“No, it’s just a sensory thing,” Gaila says. “But trust me, after this it’s bottoms up, the bar is definitely open.”

“And they are all customized?” Thaalan asks, leaning over his glass and sniffing it. “How?”

“That’s just what we do,” Gaila shrugs. “It’s just a thing I can figure out.”

“Fascinating,” Spock says and his arm grazes against Nyota’s as he raises the tiny cup Gaila presented him with to take a small sip.

“Is it good?” she asks, her eyes wide and bright, and a tiny, anxious smile on her face.

“Highly satisfying,” he answers and she smiles wider and claps her hands together again.

“So no switching with anyone because I don’t want anyone to get sick. And enjoy!”

“What does yours taste like?’ Nyota asks Spock as he takes a second sip.

“It would be difficult to articulate,” he finally says after contemplating his cup for a long moment. “I can say that it is reminiscent of a number of different foods that I am partial too and yet still quite unique in its own right.”

“Better or worse than blueberry pie?” she asks.

“That was an excellent pastry,” he allows and she grins at him.

Her own cup is slightly larger than Spock’s and she didn’t really know how but the liquid in it doesn’t seem to ever cool off, so it’s been steadily steaming since Gaila took it off the stove in Spock’s kitchen. The heat seeps through the ceramic of the mug, warming her hands, and a rich, spicy scent drifts up from the rust colored liquid.

“Oh it’s, wow, that’s really…” she says, licking her lips after taking a small sip of it. It’s heady and peppery, and a little bit sweet, spiced with something Nyota can’t recognize so that it tastes almost otherworldly, like something she didn’t know that she even wanted until she tried it. “Hmmm. It’s good.”

“Can you describe it?” Spock asks and even though the crowd around them has shifted and dispersed as everyone wanders around quizzing each other about the various tastes and experiences, he’s still standing right next to her.

“It’s like…” she starts, and pauses for another sip. “Like chai. No, like chai if it was made somewhere else. The idea of chai but different. And better than chai.” She takes a third sip and can’t help but lick her lips again, to savor the flavor on them. “Definitely not Terran. But I guess that might make sense if all of this is Orion? Speaking of, I hope Gaila didn’t break your replicator or anything.”

“I do not believe she did,” Spock says and then frowns at his cup. “I cannot sufficiently discern what this taste is reminiscent of.”

“Stop trying so hard,” Gaila instructs, appearing next to them. “It’s just supposed to be enjoyed.”

“How did you know what tastes we would prefer?” Spock asks her, still contemplating his drink.

“First of all, it’s not just taste,” Gaila says and Nyota thinks of the comfort of the warmth of her mug, the way the heat seems to seep into her the longer she holds it. “Second, I just know.”

“How?”

Gaila glances around the room, at Thex and Schori discussing the wafers they’re nibbling on, Thex’s arm around her shoulders and Schori leaning into his side, and at Gouth and Trav who are arguing about what, exactly, their drinks taste like, and at Yeinydd, who seems a bit greener, despite the fact it’s nearly December and he’s been struggling to photosynthesize, and at Thaalan laughing and flitting around the room talking to everyone else.

“Well,” Gaila says, turning back to Nyota and Spock and smiling as she glances between them. “I just know.”

“It is an admirable cultural practice, to spend time creating such enjoyment for others,” Spock tells her, which makes her beam.

“It’s perfect,” Thaalan says, coming up to them and slinging his arm around Gaila’s shoulders. “You two enjoying yourselves?”

Spock’s just looking between his cup and her, so Nyota answers for them, feeling warm and flushed and really quite happy, relaxed enough that when Chorenn brushes past them and she ends up swaying slightly into Spock, she doesn’t move away.

“Very much so,” she answers and Gaila looks as thrilled as Nyota’s ever seen her, which is nice because pressed up against Spock’s side, and with her hands full of the warm, spicy drink, she’s feeling quite happy herself.

…

“You don’t have to help,” Gaila says, later, when most people are gone and Thex is slumped in a chair at his kitchen table, yawning, and Schori has long since gone to bed.

“I don’t want you to have to clean everything up by yourself.”

“But the point was-“ Gaila starts, then sighs.

“I thought you said there wasn’t a point.”

“Where’s Spock?”

“He’s outside, Captain Pike just called him.”

“Is he coming back in?” Gaila asks, rinsing out the bowl she had finally slid Didiza out of.

“I think so,” Nyota says, then realizes she doesn’t really know. “There was something about a requisition form?”

Gaila sighs again and shakes her head. 

“That’s not…” she starts, scrunching up her face and muttering something in Orion that Nyota can’t catch. “That’s ruining it.”

“Ruining what?” 

But Gaila doesn’t answer right away, just looks at her with a discerningly piercing stare and Nyota feels herself begin to flush. 

Nyota’s half braced to be teased, to see that smile play around the corners of Gaila’s mouth and brighten her eyes, but when she speaks, all she says is, “I can do this by myself, you two always walk back together, you should go.” Nyota just shakes her head, about to say, again, that she wants to help with the dishes, and then Gaila has a hand on her shoulder and is pushing her towards the front of the house. “Go!”

She finds Spock still on his comm, one hand wrapped around it while he tries to free his jacket from the coat rack with the other.

Nyota steps forward and helps him, parting the other coats that are in his way and tugging the heavy, black jacket he always wears off the hook for him.

He’s talking with a voice that must be Pike’s about a maintenance foreman, or maybe an entire maintenance crew, and a delivery of isolinear particle modulators. She can’t make any sense of their conversation, so she starts to step away, intending to go back to the kitchen and make Gaila let her help clean up when Spock holds up a finger to her in a gesture to wait.

“I apologize,” he says, finally, when he’s flipped his comm closed. “Thank you for retrieving my coat.”

“It’s like a jacket jungle,” she says, gesturing to the coat rack. “Are you going? You have to head out?”

“Indeed. Captain Pike is otherwise occupied in a meeting with the Admiralty, or he would attend to this,” he says, zipping up his coat and sliding his comm into his pocket. 

“Well, I hope everything works out.”

“I will perhaps see you tomorrow or the next day,” Spock says and it’s funny since they normally don’t really make plans in advance to see each other, but it’s nice to think that they’d have something set up ahead of time.

“Lunch?” she asks and he nods. “And that concert?” she reminds him, not that he’s capable of forgetting, but because she really wants to go to it with him. “That sounds like fun.”

“Fun?” he asks in that tone that means he’s teasing her and she imagines for a moment if he were to stay, if they were to banter back and forth about whether or not you could classify a Vulcan event as something that would be fun. The fact that he’s so clearly in a hurry makes the thought of that conversation ache a little in her chest.

“You know what I mean,” she says.

“I do.”

Quite suddenly and quite without her permission, she finds her hand has reached out to grip his forearm. She can feel the heat of his skin through the soft fabric of his sweater and she tells herself to move her hand, but can’t seem to manage to connect that thought with actual motion.

He’s looking down at her hand on him and she realizes she’s just studying the way his lips are slightly parted, the way they move like he’s about to speak, even though he doesn’t.

“Night,” she says, abruptly dropping her hand from him and smoothing her palm over her forehead, around the back of her neck and gripping there, her fingers pressed into her own skin.

“Goodnight, Nyota,” he says and she’s staring up at him, thinking about how they always, always, walk back to the Academy together and how it’s funny because that’s not something she ever thought she would miss until now, and maybe he’s thinking that, too because he’s just looking at her, standing closer to her than he really needs to, or maybe she’s the one who moved closer to him, and right as she notices that he’s near enough that she can feel the heat of his skin on hers, and that she can hear the sound of him swallowing – and isn’t that strange, how he looks almost nervous – his comm pings and he’s stepping back, pulling it out of his pocket again and she has to shake her head to clear it.

“See you later,” she says, the words thick and cumbersome in her mouth.

“Tomorrow,” he promises and then he’s gone in a blast of cold air through the front door and she presses her palms to her cheeks, staring at the spot where he just was.


	6. Chapter 6

“Does anyone have any more questions?” Pike asks, his hand hovering over the keypad to disconnect the presentation.

There are more, she’s sure, but her classmates have quite nearly exhausted themselves from having a captain come in who was willing to answer anything they can think of to ask.

A captain and his first officer and Nyota’s proud of herself for paying attention as much as she has, with Spock standing there at the front of the lecture hall.

She knows that if she asks him when she calls him that evening, he’ll tell her all about his own perception of it, pick up the train of thought he had left off of the night before when he described being informed by Captain Pike that he was expected to attend the lecture. She can’t help but think about that, now, studying the way Pike says something to Spock, softly, their heads bent together as the cadets around her start to stand and gather their belongings, Spock’s slight ire at being pulled away from his work, combined with his own recollection of having active duty officers brought in for a talk when he was a cadet and how engaging that had been.

“Watch where you’re going,” Gaila instructs and Nyota feels herself get poked in the back, pushed forward into the crowd.

“Sorry,” she mutters, carefully picking her way down the steps towards the front of the room, half of her mind on how to properly navigate them in the crush of other students, the other half focused on the fact that Spock and Pike have been surrounded by a pack of cadets and that she won’t have a chance to say hi to him.

Not that the didn’t talk that morning, quickly, when she ran into him in the mess hall, and not that they didn’t talk the night before, and the night before that.

“Sorry,” Nyota says, again, when she realizes that she’s been focused on retracing those conversations, the warmth and delight they always leave her with, rather than not bumping into Gaila as they head down the hall.

“Cadet Uhura!” she hears from behind her and when she turns, she’s maybe not expecting that he’d be the one calling to her, not with his tone crisp and professional, so different than how low and soft it is over the comm when they talk late at night, how lightly he speaks when they’re among their friends.

“Hi,” she says, then draws up short. “Uh, sir.”

“I was able to procure tickets,” he says, coming to a stop a step closer to her than another officer would stand. Gaila’s disappeared from next to her, which is just fine because Spock is taking up her entire focus, anyway.

“What?” she asks because her mind is caught on the way his science blues hug his torso, the place where the collar of his black undershirt meets the skin of his neck. “Oh, for the-“

“Concert, yes,” he says quickly and then his hand is on her elbow and her heart’s hammering because he’s touching her, soft and gentle and warm through the fabric of her sweater, and they’re standing in the middle of the hall and she feels her attention snap away from his fingers on her arm and widen out towards her classmates, a handful of instructors, Captain Pike in the doorway to the lecture hall still being accosted by overly enthusiastic command track cadets.

She wants to be alone with him, in his quarters, at Thex and Schori’s, in his office, in the break room, anywhere that there isn’t the press of other cadets, and she wants, desperately, for him to never stop touching her like that, her mind centering in on then way his thumb has started moving back and forth, hypnotic and mesmerizing.

“That’s great,” she gets out, which is difficult since the connection between her mind and her mouth seems to not be functioning. Or maybe it’s her brain itself, suddenly blank and fuzzy and full of a cloudy haze that seems to be directly related to his touch.

“Will you have too much school work?” he’s asking when she tunes back into the meaning of his words instead of just the sound of his voice washing over her.

“It’s on… when did you say it is?”

“Wednesday.”

“Today’s Wednesday.” That gets her a smile, one of those tiny ones of his, one which makes her grin at herself and briefly cover her eyes with her hand. Her other hand, so that she doesn’t dislodge the way he’s touching her. “Next Wednesday, you meant. And no I should be mostly done with everything, at least until finals start.”

The hall has at some point emptied around them and he draws her towards the wall, so that they’re more out of the way and so that it’s just the two of them there, the rest of the Academy seemingly far away just for that moment.

“Have you eaten?”

She just shakes her head because her stomach is making a game attempt to jump past her heart and into her throat, and just ends up feeling like it’s lodged somewhere in her chest.

“Would you like to-“

“Mr. Spock,” she hears and his touch is gone from her arm, cool air rushing through the fabric of her sweater to chill the place his hand was.

“Sir?” Spock’s saying and he’s still close enough to her that heat is pouring off of him, making her skin tingle and her mouth go dry.

“Do you have a minute to go over the schematics? I want to do it now so that I can go meet up with Admiral Komack this afternoon.” Pike eyes flick over to her. “If you’re not busy.”

“Of course,” Spock answers and he’s so different like this, so brisk and decisive.

“Cadet,” Pike nods, the greeting cursory and perfunctory and he begins to turn away when his eyes narrow slightly, his attention on her again. 

“Sir?” she asks.

“So,” Pike says slowly.

“Sorry, sir?”

“You’re…” he says, then points back and forth between her and Spock. “Nice to meet you, finally.”

“This is Cadet Uhura,” Spock says, his fingers ghosting down the back of her arm.

“Nice to meet you as well, sir,” she says, her hand quickly engulfed in the Captain’s much larger one.

“So what’re you studying?” Pike asks as they start down the hall. “Spock said you were in communications but what are you focusing on?”

“Xenolinguistics,” she answers, trying to get her brain to snap back into focus, trying to narrow in on the discussion with the Captain.

“Studying anything interesting, in particular?”

“Most recently, I’ve been researching the differences in Klingon verb conjugations through different socioeconomic classes in their society.”

“Huh,” Pike says, coming to a stop at the front of the building, just before the doors. “Is that considered fascinating, Mr. Spock?”

“It is.”

“Glad we have our comm officers to be thinking about things like this,” Pike says to her with a wide grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “And sorry to steal him away.”

“Not at all, sir.”

She gets another smile from Pike and as he turns away a softer look from Spock.

“Have fun with the schematics,” she tells him, quietly so that Pike can’t hear.

“I will not,” he promises, so seriously that she finds that it’s her turn to grin.

“Illogical?”

“Quite,” he answers and when his hand brushes over her arm again, she returns the gesture this time, the fabric of his jacket surprisingly soft, his wrist wiry and strong under her touch.

She watches them go for a long moment, just staring at him as they walk through the glass doors and out onto the quad, rather unable to look away so that she catches the moment where he looks back, turns over his shoulder to catch her eye, and she smiles all the way to her next class.

…

It takes about thirty seconds into the ceremony before Gaila elbows her in the ribs.

“That’s-“

“-I know-“

“-It’s all-“

“-Yep, I can see-“

“-An entire-“

“-An entire plate of chocolate,” Nyota whispers back before shushing her roommate. “We’re supposed to be listening, you know.”

“It’s more than a plate,” Gaila breathes. “It’s so, so much…”

“We must finish the harvest,” Grippen says from where she’s seated at the front. “To celebrate the new year’s rains, we eat.”

“Now?” Gaila asks, her eyes wide and bright.

“In a moment,” Grippen says with a small smile, which is slightly disconcerting with how sharp her teeth are. “The year on our planet is measured by the weather. We do not follow the calendar that you all do, but align our months and days by when the rains come, when they cease again and when the sun arrives and our crops grow. Some years are long, some are shorter, and it is with great fortune that we are able to end the season with stores still remaining. Some years are not so, some years we wait out the rains in hunger and we go below the ground and sleep, our stomachs empty.” Grippen smiles again and shrugs one scaly shoulder in an approximation of the human gesture. “Or we did. Now, we replicate food, but if it has been a poor year, we honor the traditions of our mothers and their mothers and their mothers by fasting, briefly. But this year has been bountiful, and this year the rains came when we have stores of food remaining, so now we eat, and we celebrate.”

“It’s ok,” Thaalan says, later, his antennae still sticking straight at the mug sitting in front of Nyota. “Not great.”

“I absolutely have to disagree with you on that.” She has her mug cupped in both hands, the steam curling up from her hot chocolate carrying the rich, full scent of it and she raises the cup a little bit more so that she can breath it in more fully. The warmth washing over her face is a pleasant contrast slightly chilly air of Thex and Schori’s kitchen, since so many people are heading out into the night that the door seems to be open more often than not. They’re all sitting there, though, her and Spock and a handful of others, dragging the evening out and not quite ready to go home. 

“It’s delicious,” Thex says, hiding a yawn behind his hand.

“I can’t believe that something so similar to chocolate can be found on Gamma Sagittae Prime,” Nyota adds in order to keep the conversation going, since she’s just not really ready to head home quite yet.

“I believe the chemical make up is identical,” Spock says and she looks over at him sitting next to her, watching him study the thick, steaming liquid in her mug.

“Do you wish you had a tricorder?” Thex asks, his hands laced over his stomach as he leans back in his chair.

“It would be most helpful in determining that fact.”

“We should celebrate with Grippen more often,” Schori agrees, coming to stand behind Thex and resting her hands on his shoulders. “Though Spock and apparently Thaalan will be sorely disappointed in their ability to eat anything.”

“An entire meal made out of chocolate,” Nyota sighs happily, letting herself grin at Spock. “You’re right, it is delicious, Thex.”

“I’m going to go find a steak,” Thaalan says, his chair scraping over the floor as he pushes it away from the table. “Wanna come, anyone?”

“We are tired,” Schori answers, her hands drifting down Thex’s chest.

“You both are?”

Thex starts to answer, then glances up at his wife, and looks back and Thaalan. “Yes.”

Thaalan rolls his eyes, his antennae mirroring the gesture.

“You used to be more fun, Thex.”

“Finish your hot chocolate, no need to rush,” Schori says, her hand light on Nyota’s arm as Thex rises from his own chair and wraps his arm around her shoulders. “And please lock up when you leave.”

“You don’t mind-“

“Not at all, take your time.”

“Last chance to ditch the warm chocolate- no, wait hot? Hot chocolate? It’s not even that much chocolate, it’s all dairy,” Thaalan sighs. 

“I’m good,” Nyota says, raising her mug again and taking another sip. “Just doesn’t compare to meat.”

“What about bacon?” Thaalan wheedles.

“Close, but no,” Nyota says because there’s basically no way she’s going to leave her mostly full mug behind and go home just yet, not if Spock is still sitting next to her like he is. Leaving Thex and Schori’s will mean walking back to campus, and will mean saying goodnight to him, so she’s staying exactly where she is, no matter how much Thaalan pleads.

“Boring,” Thaalan declares. “Both of you. All of you!” he calls towards the stairs Thex and Schori disappeared up. He gives them one more roll of his eyes – and antennae – before he too leaves, another blast of chilly air seeping into the room as he shuts the door.

“How is your work?” Spock asks as soon as he’s gone and she groans into her mug.

“Fine. I got everything done in order to come tonight, obviously since I’m here, but I can’t remember the last time I spent so many hours in the library.”

“Is that a hardship?” he asks and copies Thaalan in rolling her eyes at him, though she softens it with a grin. 

“No. Yes. Stop it, just because I love that building doesn’t mean being trapped in there is what I want to be doing every weekend.” She takes another sip before replacing her mug on the table. “Though I’m mostly done. I have a couple papers due, but not for a while, so I get a bit of a break coming up.”

“That is fortunate.”

“Definitely. The same probably can’t be said for those in your class, though. Did you assign ridiculously long papers to your poor students?”

“I am certain that my students are financially secure and futhermore I believe the papers were within one standard deviation of the average length expected by other professors.”

“Above or below?”

“Above.”

“Knew it.” She takes another sip of her hot chocolate, savoring the rich flavor. It’s good, really, really good, and she can’t help but grin at the way he peers at the liquid when she replaces the mug on the table. “So what exactly happens if you drink it?”

“It has a similar effect as that of alcohol on human physiology.”

“You know this from experience?” she asks, only looking up from watching the steam twist to watch, instead, how the soft light falls across his face.

He glances at her before looking away again and she swears he’s smiling, even if his expression hasn’t changed.

“Perhaps.”

“Because I would think that teenage experimenting is logical, right?”

“Vulcan adolescents often use such rationalization in the face of their parent’s disapproval.”

“So what you’re saying is that you got wasted with your friends and your folks were…?”

“Dissatisfied,” he answers and she laughs.

“Dissatisfied,” she echoes, pausing to take a tiny sip from her cup. “Well, my parents were rather… dissatisfied we brought the human equivalent of hot chocolate on our camping trip when I was in high school.”

“You do not seem the type to so willfully disregard parameters set forth by authority figures.”

Nyota snorts and grins at him over her cup. “I just hide it well. Last year with Kirk, we-“ She stops herself, takes another sip, and lets her gaze slip to somewhere past his shoulder. “Uh-“

“You and he?”

She draws in a breath and presses her lips together. 

“I’m not, ah, really sure that…”

He waits for a long moment, probably seeing if she’s going to finish that sentence, before just doing it for her.

“Not entirely certain that your actions were of the type of which you that you should be sharing them with an officer?”

She thinks about lightly saying ‘precisely’ or ‘that was an admirably logical deduction’ or brushing the whole thing off with a laugh, but something feels funny in her throat when she tries to do so.

So instead, she just nods and risks a quick look up at him. He’s just watching her with that steady, calm gaze of his before he looks down at his own mug of tea.

“I had a recent discussion with Commander Ho, which I believe rather emulated the experience you had with her,” he says, finally.

“Did you?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“I do not believe, based upon my understanding of our conversation, that she was suggesting in any way that disregard for prescribed appropriate conduct was occurring.” It takes her a moment to parse his words, but when she does, she nods. “However,” he continues, his voice quiet and slow and he still isn’t really looking at her. “Such allowance and sanction does not render the disparity in our ranks… immaterial or insubstantial.”

“No,” she says, “It doesn’t.”

“Within the confines of that factor, do you still wish to…”

“To?” she prompts because he can’t seem to actually articulate it, but her encouragement still doesn’t draw any more words from him.

Which is fine, because she might be a linguist, but there aren’t really words for the heavy sweetness that seems to hang between them whenever they’re together, for the way her stomach flutters and quivers when she thinks about him, and she has only ever had one answer to his unspoken question.

“Yes,” she says.

“Excellent.”

“That’s what you want, as well?”

“It is.” 

She reaches out and snags the cuff of his sleeve between two fingers, giving it a slight tug before returning her hand to the warmth of her mug.

“Good.” 

He reaches for her mug and snags the handle in his long fingers. When he passes it back after taking a small sip, his fingers brush over hers, sending heat straight through her, and she hardly thinks it could possibly be an accident.

…

She never should have looked at that message. But she was nervous and a little on edge and Gaila had already to told her to stop changing her outfit and just pick something to wear and so it was either sit there and probably literally twiddle her thumbs until it was time to go meet Spock, or find something to distract herself from the tingly, jumpy feeling whenever she thought about the evening ahead of her.

And of course she just had to chose her padd, and of course she just had to check her inbox, and of course she couldn’t resist opening the message from Professor Greaves and now she’s trying to remember that she’s supposed to be having a nice time, a night away from homework and classes and the Academy, an evening out – and an evening out with Spock, at that, which she’s been looking forward to for days – and not staring somewhere past his ear as he dips his head and tries to catch her gaze.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says quickly, tucking her loose hair back behind her ears. “Let’s go.”

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine.”

“Nyota?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He’s still looking at her and she’s still looking slightly to the side of that soft gaze. “I don’t,” she repeats, quieter this time.

“Very well.”

She makes it half a block before she has to stop and blink against the way her eyes are burning and pricking.

“It’s not a big deal,” she says when he stops next to her on the sidewalk and waits patiently as she stares up at the dark sky and tries very hard not to cry.

“You owe me no explanation,” he says so gently that it makes the back of her throat ache. “However, it must have some significance or it would not follow that it would be so distressing.”

“It’s me, I’m weird, this is just how I get,” she says, trying to laugh at herself even as she drags her thumb under her eye. “It’s not even-“ she starts, attempting to say again that it’s not important, not at all, but he’s just so incredibly nice and kind and caring and who would have ever thought that a Vulcan – half Vulcan – would just stand there with that gentle expression, but it only makes sense because it’s Spock, who helped her with all that stupid homework. 

When she wipes her cheek again, her fingers come away wet and the breath she tries to draw in is shaky and shivering.

“Nyota,” he says, softly, stepping closer to her.

“I got a bad grade.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you did not.”

“And I thought I did well – I told you that, the other day, after my quiz, but I didn’t, and-“ She tries for another breath but it catches somewhere in her chest. “And you helped me with everything and I thought… I thought that-“ She digs the heels of her hands into her eyes and draws her shoulders up towards her ears and when she continues speaking she has to force the words past the hard knot in her throat. “I understand all of it when you explain it to me and I knew I did it right but I forgot that thing? With the vector calculation? And I checked my work, I always check, and I just didn’t remember and I-“ His hands close around her wrists and pulls them down with gentle, firm pressure, his grip warm in a way that sweeps across her skin. She can’t look at him still, not really, and ducks her head to the side to wipe her face on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“You spent so much time helping me and I-“

“Nyota.”

“And I feel really bad because I tried, but I couldn’t-“

“Nyota.”

“I thought that maybe I would do well but obviously-“

“Nyota,” he says, his hands sliding from her wrists to capture her hands in his and a deep rush of calm emanates from the contact, spreading through her like sinking into a warm bath, or stepping out into the heat of the sun.

“What’s that?” she asks, staring at her hands nearly completely engulfed in his much larger ones.

“I, ah-“ he starts, starting to loosen his grip and pull away. “I did not intend…”

“That’s…”

“You are exceptionally psi sensitive.”

“I am?”

“It is…” He carefully disengages their hands and holds her upper arms, instead, heat seeping into her skin through her coat. “Distracting.”

“Distracting?”

“Distracting,” he says again.

She looks down at his hand, large and pale against her arm, then up at him.

“That felt… nice.” His hands on her feel nice, too, except looking at them, at the way he’s watching her only brings back that hollow, aching jump in her chest. “I-“

“Nyota, it is illogical to assume that you will not make errors on examinations.”

“But-“

“Much of the point of evaluations is to ascertain to what degree you have grasped the material.”

“But-“

“Furthermore, constant improvement and a commitment to such is the hallmark of an exemplary officer, not the ability to complete a task perfectly on the first attempt.” His hands tighten slightly on her arms and he takes a tiny half step towards her. “Nyota, please do not distress yourself over such an occurrence.”

“Too late,” she says, rubbing her cheek on her shoulder again and wanting to raise her hands to wipe at her face, but it just feels so good to have him touching her that she doesn’t move.

“You can retake the quiz, if you so desire.”

“I don’t, I can’t, I don’t understand it and-“

“You do. You posses above average intelligence and-“

“C’mon, Spock, that’s just- If I was really that smart then I’d have gotten it right the first time.” She does step away from him, then, and rubs at the headache forming between her eyes. Everything feels achy and sore and they’re supposed to be halfway to the concert, not standing on a sidewalk with more than a few passing pedestrians casting curious glances at them. She just hopes she doesn’t know anyone who’s walked past, the idea of Kirk finding her crying over a grade making something in her stomach clench.

“Nyota, a single score on a single quiz does not have the power to define your intellectual capabilities.”

“But I don’t get bad grades, it’s not what I do, it’s not me. That is the only, literally the only thing that I’m good at.” She sniffs, hard, because her nose is all gross, and she lets her jaw tighten as she stares down the street that they’re supposed to be walking down. She can picture it so clearly, how close they always walk to each other, the careful attention he pays to what she says, the gentle way he teases her that is so funny and so sweet and nothing she would ever have expected from him and yet makes every conversation with him such an incredible joy. And now, instead, he’s standing there watching her cry and her chest feels like a gnawing, hollow emptiness. “I’m sorry, I’m ruining all of this, let’s go.”

“You are not ruining anything, and for someone who gives particular import to the correct use of the word ‘literally’, I find myself surprised that you would improperly exercise it in reference to your capabilities.”

She drags her wrist under her nose and squints up at him. “What?”

“You have excellent skills teaching language tutorials, are able to quickly and accurately grasp foreign cultures, have the ability to discern subspace frequency anomalies without error, and are, I believe, peerless in your ability to learn and retain new languages.”

“Well that’s all… that’s easy.”

“Then why do you insist on defining yourself by your failure to achieve such a challenge as scoring perfect marks on a quiz in a subject that you admit is not your strength, and yet give no credence to the ways in which you excel? Certainly – and logically – those aspects of yourself far outweigh the results of your quiz.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“I am saying it because it is a fact, and if you do not wish to recognize it as such, that will not dissuade me from doing so.” His hand brushes over hers so lightly that she might have imagined it if she hadn’t seen his arm move. “I would impart the certainty of your accomplishments upon you, were I able to do so.”

She tries to look up at him but can’t, not really, not with the way everything feels watery and shaky inside of her.

“Guess Vulcans don’t lie.”

“We do not.”

“So therefore, logically, I should believe you.”

“Indeed.”

She lets out a shivering breath and studies the front of his jacket and thinks about how badly she wants to step forward and rest her head right there.

Instead, she presses her lips together and looks down the street again.

“I have a headache.”

“Would you like to find some water?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know, maybe.” She shakes her head, but still can’t look at him. “We’re going to be late. We are late, probably.”

“That is so.”

She rubs her palm over her forehead and temple. “I’m sorry. You want to see if we can still go?”

“Are you feeling sufficiently emotionally stable?” he asks and she shakes her head again, which only makes it throb.

“No. But I don’t want to keep you from enjoying the concert.”

“My aim in suggesting the event was to spend the evening with you. I do not have a particular preference for how to achieve such.”

She huffs out a quiet sigh, one that maybe almost borders on a laugh. “You can’t be so nice to me, Spock, you’re going to make me cry again.”

“Why would such a statement induce a physical expression of sadness?”

“Humans,” she says by way of explanation. She drags both of her index fingers under her eyes and wipes them on the hem of her coat, then crosses her arms tight around herself and rocks back and forth on her feet, daring a glance up at him.

He waits until she’s looking at him before he speaks again. “I happen to be rather fond of humans. Certain humans, that is.”

“Who’s on the list?”

“It is a very short list.”

“Shorter than my list of my favorite half-Vulcans?”

“Perhaps not that short.” He touches her hand again, gently, with the back of his knuckles. “Would you consider another activity tonight in lieu of the concert? Unless you wish to return to your dormitory.”

“No. Wait, I meant that I don’t want to go back there.” She doesn’t at all, doesn’t want to have to explain this all over again to Gaila, who already was giving her weird looks when she fell silent after reading that message containing her grade and then summarily refused to answer any questions about it.

“Would you be partial to the consumption of alcohol or ice cream? I understand those are two traditional foods in such circumstances.”

She can’t help but smile at that, his completely bland delivery of that line no matter how bright his eyes look as he says it.

“You been studying up on human rituals, Spock? How logical. And yes, they are, but no. I have a massive headache and it’s too cold for ice cream.”

“Tea?” he asks and she nods.

“Tea.”

Their favorite café is closed, and the other one they sometimes go to is way too crowded and as soon as Spock suggests his apartment as a potentially suitable destination, she finds herself agreeing so quickly that she wonders if that wasn’t exactly where she wanted to go all along.

She waits on his couch while he makes them tea and it gives her an opportunity to look around his place without the distraction of Gaila being there as well. It’s beautiful, really, everything precise and simple and elegant, understated without being plain, and each individual object unique enough that she has to clasp her hands together so that she doesn’t get up and start poking through everything.

His bookshelf looks like something she could spend a couple hours riffling through, and he has actual paper books like Thex and Schori have in their house, and she’s pretty sure she sees an original copy of the first Vulcan – Standard dictionary. She contemplates actually sitting on her hands so that she doesn’t walk over and grab it.

His desk is pushed against one wall of his living room and there’s a holo on it of a woman with dark hair and kind eyes, who’s smiling despite her Vulcan robes and Nyota studies it from afar, hungry to know about his mother. 

“She’s coming soon?” she asks Spock as he places two mugs of tea on his coffee table and joins her on the couch. “For Arivn’van-kal’e?”

“Yes. The holiday occurs on Vulcan on Thursday, but I will celebrate it Sunday with everyone here.”

“Are you still going to go with her to see her side of the family?”

“Indeed, I am meeting her in Seattle Friday afternoon. Though I will return on Sunday before her to prepare for Arivn’van-kal’e at Thex and Schori’s.” Nyota reaches for her tea and takes a sip of the warm, spicy blend he chose for them, feeling the last remnants of her headache ease and then fade as she does so. “She has professed great excitement at the notion of joining everyone for the celebration.”

“Really. Good. That’s great, I’m sure it’ll be fun,” Nyota says, quickly replacing her tea on the table.

“You will be there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” she assures him. “And I’m still dying to know if there’s actually baking involved in the preparations.”

“If you are available that day, you might be able to ascertain such first hand.”

“I’ll clear my schedule,” she says with a grin.

“Excellent.” He takes a sip of his tea in that precise way of his, so economical and graceful that she wonders how anyone could ever think Vulcans stiff or tense. “Would you like to review your Interstellar Navigation quiz results? I do not know if that would put your mind at ease to work through the problems, or if you would rather avoid the subject for the evening.”

“I want to – wow, maybe we should record this and play it back for Gaila because I think it’s a first – I want to do something fun, instead.”

“Fun?” He glances around his apartment, then back at her. “You may very well find that you have not come to a place with a particular propensity for such.”

“I think you underestimate exactly how much I like conjugating verbs.”

“As I have said, you are not normal.”

“Literally?” she asks.

“Literally,” he repeats and rises from the couch to walk towards his ka’athrya. “If you are so inclined-“

“Yes,” she grins and he picks it up and walks back towards her. She can’t help but watch him as he does so, the lithe, lean lines of his body and the ways his clothes fit him just so, his shirt tight across his shoulders, loose around his trim waist, the way his pants hug his long legs.

Her mouth feels a little bit dry when he settles the harp on her lap, and her fingers feel a little bit uncoordinated when she raises them to place them how his were when he played.

“Bring your elbow to your side,” he instructs and his fingers are warm and gentle as he guides her arm into place. “And sit up straight.”

“I am,” she says, trying to straighten further. “Do you guys learn posture in school? Because I don’t think my spine gets any longer.” She feels the light touch of his fingers on her lower back, his hand slipping between the couch and her body and feels a flush spread through her down to her toes. “Spock.”

“Yes?” he asks, his hand drifting up her back to press just below her shoulder blades. He studies her and she feels the moment stretch between them, hang there with a heavy, delicious tension, feels the warmth of his hand ease the last of the ache in her chest and draw the beginning of a smile out of her.

“I can’t play if you’re touching me like that.”

“You cannot?” he asks, one eyebrow raised as he slowly withdraws his hand. She doesn’t think she’s imagining the slight green stain on his cheeks, nor the way her own face feels warmer than the heat of his quarters should account for. 

“Nope. I’ll probably drop this on the ground, and then where will we be?”

“Cleaning it up, I suppose,” he says.

“Which would really put a damper on the evening.”

“I believe that is an accurate prediction.”

He reaches for her hands again, shifting how she holds her wrist and adjusting her fingers with the back of his knuckle.

“Hey,” she says when he finally sits back, satisfied with her position, since she can’t exactly think when he’s touching her, let alone form coherent sentences. “Thank you.”

“There is no need to-“

“No.” She reaches out and touches his arm, just lightly, just a brush of her fingers over his sweater. “I mean it.”

“You are welcome, Nyota,” he says quietly, looking down at where she touched him and then back up at her.

She gives him one of his own tiny smiles, which broadens when she looks back down at the harp. “I moved my hand. Whoops.”

“You did.” He waits while she tries to get her fingers back the way he put them, but she can’t do it, not with the way he’s watching her.

“You’re just going to have to help me again.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. So sorry.”

“You are not,” he says as his hands rise to hers again and that heat races right through her.

She can’t really look away from his hand on hers, how it looks to have him touching her like that and she lets her teeth graze over her bottom lip, just barely biting back a smile.

His eyes dart over her face and she feels suddenly conscious of the fact that she was crying not so long ago, and that she never really bothered to look in a mirror afterwards because it was just Spock. Spock, who’s now silently staring at her, his fingers resting on her knuckles and their knees close enough that they’re almost touching. 

“You look very beautiful tonight night, Nyota,” he says and she feels herself flush, her cheeks positively burning at his words. “I had meant to inform you of that fact and summarily failed to do so.” He hesitates before continuing and she can’t help but stare at the way his lips part as he draws in a breath. “I would also take the opportunity to add that I find you beautiful most other times, as well,” he says, then pauses again. “All other times.” He stops again and frowns. “And I do not intend to convey that the sentiment does not include the fact of your considerable intellect, the esteem I have for your personality, or other admirable qualities,” he says and she laughs and ducks her head. 

“Thanks,” she says quietly and when she looks back up at him, his eyes are on her, dark and steady, and his hand rises to push the hair that’s slipped forward towards her face back around her ear. His fingers graze over her cheek as he drops his hand, soft and warm, and she feels her heart pound in her chest. “Thank you,” she says, again, her mouth dry.

He just pushed her hair back but she feels nervous and jumpy, like everything inside her body has turn into something tremulous and shaky, and she can’t help but repeat the motion, running her hand over her hair and through those few strands.

“You have moved your fingers again.”

“I am literally not good at keeping my hand still.”

“That is correct,” he says. “However, that is the only thing you have proved to be so inept at.”

“Good thing you’re here, then,” she says as he covers her hand in his warm, large palm and replaces it on the harp.

“It is fortunate.”

“I guess I’ll have to work to have your exemplary skills in that realm.”

“Yes. May I kiss you?”

“What?” she asks, her gaze jerking up from his hand, so big and gentle on hers, up to his face. “I mean, yes.”

He looks a little blank, like maybe he’s shocked that he asked and when he doesn’t move right away, she puts her hand on his shoulder, leans forward, and presses her lips to his.

It’s soft and gentle and he’s not overly responsive but he slowly presses back into her kiss, and when she pulls away and lets her eyes flutter open, he’s staring at her so intently, so incredibly focused on her, that she doesn’t think she’s had anyone look at her like that, ever.

“Um,” she says and watches her hand smooth down the sloping line of his shoulder. She can feel the hard ridge of his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt and the slight hollow below it.

“Would you like-“

“I was-“

She drops her hand from him to raise her fingers to cover her mouth like they somehow have the power to staunch her smile. They don’t, of course, and she ends up pressing her hand to her chest instead.

He blinks and his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and when he exhales, she can see his breath shiver over it. 

“I had though to offer you tea,” he says and she watches his throat work as he swallows. “Except that we already are in possession of such.”

“We are, aren’t we.” She swallows, too, and reaches for her mug because her mouth is suddenly incredibly dry, and she’s hardly surprised to see the slight tremor that goes through the liquid in the cup at the way her hand is shaking. “I, ah-“

“Perhaps-“ he starts, nodding to the ka’athrya and she looks down, half surprised that she’s still holding it in her lap.

“Right.”

“If you-“

“My hand, right, I-“ She sets her mug back down, wipes her palm that is suddenly sweaty on the bottom of her shirt and tries to replace her fingers where he had them earlier, except she can’t because her mind is utterly and completely blank.

Which is fine because he’s already reaching for her hand and she thinks his mind is a little blank, too, or maybe racing, maybe what’s flowing through his fingers and into hers is a coursing, rushing happiness that echoes and builds upon what’s surging through her stomach and chest and is making her smile so wide her face hurts.

“Like so,” he instructs, adjusting her hand the way he wants it. He studies it for a moment, then looks up at her, leans forward and kisses her again.

She lets her eyes drift shut as his hands rise to cup her jaw, and she feels him exhale a quiet sigh against her cheek. His fingers are so gentle, so incredibly soft and light on her cheeks, and his mouth is too, his lips slow and tender and meticulous against hers, so that when they break apart she’s left a little bit breathless.

Her nose bumps against his and she can’t help but nuzzle into him, their foreheads brushing together, and his lips find the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her temple before he leans back and lets out a deep breath.

She just wants to look at him, take in those dark eyes and the line of his chin and the way his lips are slightly parted and the muscle that jumps in his cheek, just once, that hints at everything going on behind his calm expression, so it takes her a long time to find anything to say.

“I am actually going to drop this if you keep kissing me like that,” she tells him, reaching out to twine her fingers with his.

His mouth twitches and she doesn’t think she’s the only one having trouble staunching an enormous smile, no matter how contained his expression is.

“As we established, that would be unfortunate.” 

“If we established anything, it’s that I can’t concentrate when you’re touching me like that,” she says, letting her words drift off into another smile that tickle of his happiness pricks across her hand again, spreading out from where he’s touching her until her entire arm feels tingly and light.

His head tilts and that light is in his eyes again and she is just so damn happy with him there next to her on the couch, his hand stroking over hers like he can’t help himself, her skin still warm from where he touched her face, the memory of his mouth on her still fresh in her mind. And he is definitely smiling, his eyes dancing back and forth between their hands and her face, and it might be only the slightest uptick of the corner of his lips, but it’s there and it fills her with so much warmth that she feels like her body isn’t big enough to contain all of it, like at any second it will burst right through her, and she thinks she could probably exist in this moment forever, stretch it out and hang on to it with both hands, time drawn out and halted in the way he’s looking at her.

…

She is completely able to concentrate on basic tasks like brushing her teeth. And washing her face. And putting on her pajamas and maybe organizing her desk and also putting away some laundry because she is alternating between having too much energy and staring blankly into space, which is exactly how Gaila finds her, chewing on her thumbnail, staring at the wall, and standing in the middle of their room holding a single sock.

“You’re here,” Gaila states. “And nice sock,” she says gently, removing Nyota’s thumb from her mouth and guiding her to sit on the edge of her bed. “Why did you leave here like you were about to burst into tears? Why are you smiling like that? What’s going on? Why aren’t you with Spock? Why do you have a sock? Are those two things connected? Did a wayward letter P get misplaced?”

“Nothing.”

“Nyota Uhura, what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You two kissed.”

She bites her bottom lip, smiles, covers half her face with her palm and nods.

“We kissed.”

“And?”

“Had tea.”

“And?”

“He taught me how to play his ka’athrya.”

“Nice.”

“What?”

“I’m just saying, I don’t know what that is so I’m going to assume it’s a euphemism for some incredibly kinky and athletic sex thing I’ve never heard about. Didn’t know you had it in you, Ny. I thought you were more of a ‘hey, look, I had sex at the foot of the bed!’ type of gal.”

“No, it’s a harp, Gaila, it’s his harp that he has,” Nyota says, running the sock through her hands before twisting it this way and that, her mind already retracing the way his hand always seemed to find her knee whenever she was playing.

“Wow. Boring.”

“No, it was…” Nyota just smiles down at the sock and shrugs. “It was…”

“Why were you so upset earlier?”

“Oh, that was only…” Nyota waves the sock at the offending padd with her messages on it. “That was not a big deal.”

“You were almost crying.”

“It was nothing. It was fine.”

“Fine?” Gaila repeats.

“Spock says I should remember all of my ‘positive attributes’ or whatever instead of focusing on one tiny thing I did wrong.”

“Spock said that?” Gaila repeats, slowly this time. “Spock said that tonight?”

“Yeah, he was really sweet and-“

“Spock said that tonight and you listened to him?”

“And then he also said that-“

“Spock says once – once, Nyota Uhura – what I have been telling you for ages now and you listen to him?”

“Um?”

“Humans,” Gaila mutters. “You are ridiculous.”

“I am not!”

“Probably because Commander Hot – sorry, Spock – doesn’t think you are?”

“Gaila…”

“And speaking of supreme hotness-“

“-That’s really not-“

“I’m going to tell you what Schori told me. After Orion night? That night in bed, Schori said that Thex -“

“Gaila! I do not need to know about that!”

“-And here I thought that he was super tired when we left and that she was asleep. I’m so proud of them.”

“You said that what you made us didn’t have any side effects!”

“They didn’t! I just can’t help that they’re totally into each other and a little oral pleasure went a long way. Get it? Food? Oral pleasure? Because speaking of, that is exactly what she said he-“

“Gaila!”

“What? At least it worked for them, unlike two other supremely frustrating individuals I know.”

“You-“

“I love all my friends, you’re totally right, Ny, since I’m sure that’s what you were going to say, even the ones who take their sweet time with things. That’s you and Spock, if you hadn’t figured that out.”

“This is not any of my business! And that’s none – zero, Gaila – of yours.”

“False. She’s the one who told me all about it. All, all about it, Ny. And also please stop destroying my sock.”

“Your sock?” Nyota asks, looking down at it, where she’s twisted it around her fingers. “It was in my closet.”

“And it’s dirty. You’re gross, don’t be gross.”

“Please don’t leave dirty socks in with my clothes,” Nyota sighs.

“Please stop mooning over your totally handsome, totally sweet new boyfriend. And as punishment for stealing my sock, I’m going to tell you in excruciating detail exactly what Schori told me. Seriously, I think that when N'Takim’s contract on Earth is up and he has to move back to Delta Caeli VI I’m going to find myself a Bajoran, because damn, Ny.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Gaila.”

“Mrrph.”

“Gaila.”

“M’asleep.”

“Gaila.”

“M’sleeping you crazy woman.”

“Gaila, I’m serious.”

“Oh, good, cause I thought for a second you were waking me up in the middle of the night as a joke. Haha, I’m a human, surprise!”

“We only do that in the beginning of April, and it’s not the middle of the night, it’s 0953 and you asked me to wake you up so that you could finish your homework so that you can go tonight.”

“Go where?”

“Thex and Schori’s. It’s Sunday. And what’s wrong with you? How much did you have to drink last night?”

“I don’t want to,” Gaila groans, turning over in her bed and pulling the covers up over her head so that her words are muffled. “I’m too tired.”

“You wanted to get your homework done because Spock’s going to-“

“It’s Vulcan night!”

Nyota resists the urge to rub at her ear, but doesn’t bother stopping herself from glaring at her roommate, now sitting straight up in bed with the blankets pooled around her waist.

“It… is. Wow, you can be really, really loud.”

“I can’t wait! I’m so excited! This is going to be so- Wait.”

“Wait, what?”

“You.”

“What?”

“I told you to wake me up at ten.”

“I was tired of listening to you snoring.”

“You are normally at the gym on Sunday mornings.”

“I couldn’t really sleep so I also slept in late – not this late, but I-“

“You always sleep well.”

“No, it was just last night, I-“

“Nyota Uhura, you are freaking out.”

“I am not, that’s not, it isn’t-“

“Spock’s mom, who he adores, is coming today.”

“Whom.”

“Whom?”

“She’s the-“

“Nyota Uhura, is she or isn’t she going to be there?”

“Uh, yes, I guess so?”

“You guess so?” Gaila asks, one green finger extended across the gap between their beds to point at the center of Nyota’s chest. “All casual? You guess she’s maybe coming, just possibly might swing by, totally not a big deal?”

“But it’s not-“

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“Um-“

“What are you going to wear tonight? Answer without thinking go!”

“Uh-“

“Are you going to bring your resume? You are, aren’t you, that would absolutely be something you would do. Hi I’m Nyota, I’m perfect, your son is perfect, we kissed once for like two seconds so we’re basically married and-“

“I don’t know what he and I are doing and I don’t know what he told her and I don’t know where this is going with him and I don’t know what she thinks and-“ She tries to make some type of gesture that would sum it all up and just ends up kind of wildly flapping her hands at Gaila. “And we’ve talked for maybe thirty seconds since I saw him the other night and neither of us really said anything and we never said if we – if this was a thing and now she’s going to be here and … and you’re right, I don’t know what to wear.”

“Well,” Gaila says, throwing the covers back and bouncing out of her bed. “That part’s easy. I mean the rest of it is too, since you’re just freaking out because it’s basically your favorite hobby, but clothes are what I do.”

“No lingerie, Gaila.”

“Oh.” Gaila only pouts for a moment before brightening again. “How about breakfast instead? Waffles?”

“No, I- I told Spock I’d go over to Thex and Schori’s and help him with everything and he’s back from Seattle and I need to get going and-“

“And so instead you’re sitting here talking to me?”

“Yes. No. I’m going, I’m going right now,” Nyota says, though she finds she doesn’t move from her perch on the side of her bed, just keeps sitting there and staring at Gaila, who’s staring right back at her.

“So go.”

“I’m going.”

“Wow, you’re moving really fast, slow down there.”

“What if she doesn’t like me?”

“What if you sit there, unmoving, for the entire rest of your life and I have to explain to everyone I ever bring back to the room why my roommate who is at the top of her class, completely gorgeous and capable of doing basically everything perfect the first time she tries something, and knows more words than anyone needs to ever know – and I mean that literally – can’t just say ‘hi’ to a woman who’s probably predisposed to think she’s the neatest thing since someone invented how to separate bread into pieces, because her son’s tripping over himself about her?”

“That was a lot of pronouns.”

“Out. Go. Now. Bye.”

“But-“

“Go.”

“But what if-“

“Nyota Uhura, you are fine. Repeat after me.”

“Repeat what?” Nyota asks when Gaila doesn’t say anything else.

“I don’t know, that’s just something humans say sometimes, you figure it out, it’s your stupid planet and your stupid language.”

“You are no help.”

“It’s because your bra selections are atrocious. Like, if we could just go shopping? Then we could get something really, really cute and you’d be so-“

“I’m going,” Nyota sighs, standing up and smoothing her hands over her skirt, trying to calm the flutter of nerves that’s sitting in her stomach.

“Like I said, slow down there. Don’t hurt yourself running.”  
“You are not as funny as you think you are.”

“I’m hilarious, and awesome, and pretty, and wonderful, and you’re lucky to have me and Mrs. Spock’s Mom is going to love you, so get.”

“That’s not her-“

“Go!”

…

Nyota’s only a little late to meet him and is only slightly on edge when Thex opens the door and greets her.

“Good. Hi, I mean, thanks. Um.”

“Spock is in the kitchen.”

“Right.”

“It is to your left.”

“No, I-“ Nyota pauses, presses her lips together, and forces herself to actually breathe. She also forces herself to meet Thex’s quizzical stare. “Good morning, how’s your weekend been?”

“We painted the young one’s room.”

“Oh, great, that must of have been fun,” Nyota says, unzipping her coat and hanging it where she normally does. “What color did you choose?”

“Black.”

“Black?”

“Naturally.”

“For, ah, all four walls?”

“And the ceiling.”

“That’s, uh…”

“It is so beautiful,” Schori says, coming down the stairs with a wide smile on her face and one hand covering her stomach.

“I can imagine,” Nyota says politely. “You two must be getting so excited. How long, exactly?”

“Several weeks,” Schori says, her hand slipping into Thex’s. “Not so very long at all, now.”

“That’s a lot quicker than for humans, then.”

“I have been pregnant for fourteen Terran months.”

“Oh. That’s- Hi.”

Spock looks so incredibly good in those slacks of his that he wears all the time and a thick, dark sweater that hugs his chest and falls just so across his flat stomach and narrow waist. And she hasn’t seen him since she left his apartment that night and a couple of quick comm calls, and even briefer messages back and forth is nothing compared to having him standing there looking right at her.

“Is there something you need, Spock?” Thex asks and Nyota draws in a deep breath, realizing neither of them have spoken in too long of a time.

“Not at this juncture,” Spock answers, only darting the briefest glance at Thex. “Was your weekend satisfactory, Nyota?”

“I finished that paper.”

“Excellent.” 

She brushes her hands down the front of her shirt and tugs at it to straighten it. 

“How was Seattle?”

“Acceptable.”

“Great, that’s great.”

“We need ice,” Shori says.

“We have ice,” Thex replies.

“We need to buy diapers.”

“The young one will not be here until-“

“We need more black paint.”

“We finished-“

“Let’s paint the wooden containment system that humans use for their young, Thex.” Schori tugs him past Nyota and over to the front door. “We will return with black paint. Please inform us if you need any further supplies while we are out.”

“You know that Spock is typically prepared for-“

“We will also be getting ourselves lunch.”

“You already had an early-“

“I am pregnant, Thex, I am having a second lunch.”

Nyota’s aware of them leaving, the rush of cool air flowing in from the door washing over her, but she’s entirely sure that’s not the source of the shiver that runs through her.

“Hi,” she repeats in the quiet and stillness of the house when they’re gone.

“Hello.”

“How’s it all going with-“ she starts, then just gestures to the kitchen behind him because it’s getting harder and harder for her to talk with him looking at her like that. “Did I miss all the baking?”

“You did not.”

“Good.”

“Why did you want to make everything here and not at your place?” she asks since she’s maybe a little disappointed – a lot disappointed – that they’re not alone in his apartment.

“I would not have had time to both return from Seattle as well as transport everything from my quarters.”

“Oh. Logical.”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad that Seattle was good.”

“Indeed.” He motions back behind him and she thinks that maybe she’s not the only one slightly at a loss for words. “If you would like-“

“Yeah, sure, of course.”

Everything is neatly arranged in the kitchen, all of his spices that are normally on his counter lined up on Thex and Schori’s, and three kaasas in a row, and a small pile of hi’rats which look so much better than the ones the mess hall has that she has trouble not reaching for one, since he probably bought exactly as many as he needed.

“You have tried them before?” he asks, following her gaze.

“Yeah, they’re good, they remind me of grapes.”

“I have never tried grapes.”

“You should, sometime.”

“Perhaps I will.”

“Not as good fresh as they are when they’re fermented, though.” He just looks at her and she feels that quivering, rushing sensation she gets whenever he’s that close and is focused on her like that. “As in wine.”

“I see.”

“Good.” she says.

“That fact is duly noted,” he says, then leans down and kisses her.

His mouth against hers, the way he immediately cups her shoulders in his hands, and the way he presses towards her when she closes her hands over his elbows makes the knot of nerves in her chest loosen into excitement and happiness, a feeling that blooms through her the longer he kisses her.

She follows his mouth when he starts to pull back, pressing her lips to the side of his mouth, his chin, his own lips again, briefly, before letting her nose trace the length of his and letting herself smile. She curls her hand around the back of his neck and holds him there against her for a moment, her fingers skating through the short, silky hair on the back of his head, and their faces crowded so close that she can feel him breathing against her skin.

“I missed you,” she whispers when she hasn’t really stopped touching him and he hasn’t let go over her, either. When he nods in agreement, his nose bumps against her cheek. 

They share one more soft, lingering kiss before he steps back from her and she reluctantly lets her hands drop from him, her fingers drifting over his shoulder and chest. 

“Are you going to show me what to do?” she asks. “How I can help?”

But he’s just watching her, his gaze dark and steady and she feels herself flush, feels the urge to raise her hands to her cheeks to see if they’re burning.

“Yes,” he says, seeming to shake himself without actually moving. “There is much to prepare.”

“I can tell,” she says, nodding over at the counter.

“Thex had offered assistance as well, so without his help we might find that we are slightly behind schedule.”

“Oh,” she says lightly, her mouth strangely dry under his continued scrutiny. “There’s a schedule?”

“Of course.”

“Right,” she nods. “Of course. And Thex did kind of skip out on us.”

“He did.”

He’s kissing her again before she quite knows what’s happening, her lower back pressed into the counter and her arms around his neck, his mouth insistent and tender all at once. He cups the back of her head in one warm hand as she tips her face up farther, to better reach his mouth, to better respond to the way he’s kissing her, so precise and heated like he is. 

She draws in a shaky breath when he pulls away enough to switch angles and then his lips are on hers again and she feels a low heat settle deep in her stomach at the slip of his tongue against hers.

“We should, ah, probably-“ he starts to say, later, after she’s breathless and flushed and there’s a slightly green tinge to his cheeks.

“Baking,” she says, her tongue darting over her lip and she watches his eyes drop back to her mouth.

“Baking,” he repeats. “That is…”

“Logical?”

He stares at her mouth for another long moment. “Unfortunately,” he says and she can’t help but smile.

“Show me,” she says and when his fingers drift against hers, then tangle together briefly, she can feel the warm tingle of his happiness and beneath it a hot, coursing heat pass between them.

…

“Are you going to sing?” Gaila asks, squinting up at Spock.

“No.”

“Are you going to play your thingy?”

“To what are you referring?”

“The-“ Gaila gestures a bit wildly but Spock seems to understand.

“Ah, no, I will not.”

“Is this going to be interesting?”

“I believe so.”

“Is there any chance of alcohol?”

“I did not bring any.”

“So probably no meat then, either.”

“That is correct.”

“Dessert?”

“I believe you can make a logical deduction as to my answer.”

Gaila lets out a breath of air and gives Nyota a stern look.

“What?” Nyota asks, the hand that isn’t resting on Spock’s back raised, palm out towards her roommate. “Why are you looking at me like this is my fault?”

“Are you going to explain the eyebrows?” Gaila asks, apparently finally done skewering Nyota with that irritated look.

“Pardon?”

“Or why your ears are so pointy?”

“Gaila,” Nyota says. “You can’t just ask someone why they-“

“But I want to know,” Gaila says, crossing her arms. “Or I want a drink.”

“I believe that in all likelihood Thaalan will be bringing ale.”

“Good.” Gaila uncrosses her arms but is still giving Spock a look that suggests she thinks he’s holding out on her. “I just think that if you’re going to do a whole Vulcan thing tonight, something about your ears should be included.”

“You did not explain why you are green when you were the host,” Spock points out.

“That’s true,” Nyota agrees and gets another look, this time accompanied by a long sigh by her roommate.

“Don’t be on his side.”

“I’m -“

“And being green is awesome and requires no explanation.”

“Then why do you insist upon-“

“I just really feel like I really, really need to know, Spock.”

“I do not understand your fascination with this topic.”

“Because,” Gaila says. “Like, logic and stuff.”

“That does not-“

“Does your mom know?”

“Do I know what?” Nyota hears from behind her and Gaila brightens, her gaze shifting to over Nyota’s shoulder and a smile stretching across her face.

“Why Vulcan’s ears are all pointy?” she says, her green hands clapping together and her fingers fluttering against each other. “And hi, I’m Gaila, it’s so nice to meet you and this is Nyota, obviously, but you probably already know all about her, and this is your son and you know him, and there’s zero alcohol but you probably didn’t know that – and no dessert, either so you should really talk to Spock about how to throw a fun party because he doesn’t seem to know and the other thing we don’t know about is the ear thing.”

“Mother,” Spock says, turning away from Gaila and Nyota lets her hand drop away from him as he does so, swallowing against the jump that has seemed to settle in her throat.

“Hello,” the older woman says, reaching out to touch her son’s hand when Spock holds his fingers out to her. She’s in robes, and her head is mostly covered, a couple loose strands of silvery brown hair slipping towards her dark eyes, and Nyota’s rather surprised to find that she’s shorter than herself, somehow thinking that Spock’s mother would be a lot taller.

“Can I shake your hand?” Gaila asks, sticking her own out. “It’s a weird thing to do, but I’m kind of into it.”

“Nice to meet you, Gaila,” Spock’s mother says and when she smiles, just small and fleeting, it’s so warm and kind that Nyota can’t help but think that she knows exactly where Spock gets that particular expression.

“I’m Nyota,” she says and wonders what she normally does with her hands when she’s talking to someone, because right then they feel kind of in the way and like she doesn’t know where to put them. Pockets, she thinks, and tries to swallow down the weird thing her heart is doing in her chest, like her stomach’s trying to jump right past it. Any of her clothes with pockets would have been a good choice and of course she couldn’t have actually thought of that before leaving her dorm that morning.

“Amanda,” the other woman responds and her hand is soft and Nyota thinks that maybe she thought it would be warm, like how Spock is always warm, but it’s just like any other human’s hand she’s ever shaken.

“Do you need any help?” Amanda asks Spock, her hand rising to smooth out the fabric of his sweater over his shoulder.

“Not at all.”

“There’s no drinks,” Gaila says, her tone as forlorn as Nyota’s ever heard it. 

“There was a gentleman with a bottle of-“ Amanda starts.

“I have ale!” Thaalan grins, appearing next to them. “For you, my dear,” he says, handing Gaila a tall, full glass.

“Ah, there he is,” Amanda says and Nyota watches her watch Gaila let out a small squeal of delight, already taking a long sip, even as the older woman’s eyes shine like Spock’s do, sometimes, when he finds something amusing.

“Mother, this is Thaalan.”

“Welcome, welcome,” Thaalan says, his hand first brushing over his chest in his own way of introducing himself, before he holds out a blue hand for her to shake. “We’re so happy you could make it.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss tonight,” she answers.

“This is Didiza,” Gaila says, pointing to where Schori is helping pull purple globs off of Yeinydd and hand it back to her. “And have you met a Seiliu ever? He’s nice, his name’s Yeinydd, but he’s pretty quiet this time of year.” Gaila’s voice lowers slightly before she continues. “We keep telling Didiza not to give him hugs, that he’s just going dormant for the winter, but she’s so worried about him.”

“I can imagine,” Amanda says.

“And that’s everyone – or not everyone, everyone, cause that’s Schori and over there is her husband Thex and they have this awesome nursery for their baby – it’s all black, you should totally see it, it’s so amazing – and I think R’Eka’s coming later with Crisaedh, and - look Hlaura and Chorenn just walked in - and Gouth and Trav are on their way and like lots of other people too. So that wasn’t everyone,” Gaila shrugs. “But anyway, don’t step on Didiza cause I did once and I couldn’t get all of her off of my shoe – I mean, they were Nyota’s shoes, not mine, really – but don’t do it cause then part of her will be all the way back on Vulcan and then where will we be?”

“That would be unfortunate.”

“Exactly. Unfortunate. And you know what’s even more unfortunate?”

“I am unsure,” Amanda says carefully.

“That we don’t know about this ear thing!” Gaila says, turning back to Spock, who’s just been watching her silently, his eyes cutting back and forth between her and his mother. “I think that what’s really going on here, Professor I’m-The-Biggest-Genius-Starfleet-Has-Seen-In-Like-Ever is that you don’t know.”

Spock opens his mouth to answer and Nyota watches his lips move like he’s about to speak, before he closes his mouth again and his head dips to the side.

“Blue skin helps us blend into the glaciers at the edge of the sea, where our forefathers first emerged from,” Thaalan says, downing half of his glass of ale in one gulp and smiling at Spock even as he does so. 

“I can photosynthesize,” Gaila says primly. “Which is pretty damn helpful when people don’t bring dessert to parties, Spock. Just saying.”

“It is dark out,” Spock points out, gesturing to the window and Gaila crosses her arms again.

“Don’t even try to change the subject, Mister I’m-So-Observant-I-Can-Figure-Out-That-The-Sun-Set-Two-Hours-Ago.”

“Technically, it set one hour and-“

“I might recommend that Miss Gaila attend High Council meetings on Vulcan,” Amanda says quietly and Nyota glances at her to find that soft smile pulling at her mouth again as Gaila cuts Spock off mid sentence. “I can think of a number of ministers who may very well benefit from such… forwardness.”

“In her review from one of our professors last semester, she got called ‘audacious’. I think she’s maybe never been so happy.”

“You are cadets?” Amanda asks. “I didn’t realize that you’re a student.”

“Oh, I… yes, we are.” It feels weird, suddenly, that she’s a student and Spock’s a commissioned officer, something that’s readily apparent whenever they talk about their work and often isn’t a big deal, but now seems strangely important. “Gaila’s my roommate, actually.”

“Spock told me that you worked in Xenolinguistics,” Amanda says and either doesn’t find the difference in ranks between Nyota and her son strange, or is completely able to hide it.

“I do, that’s my focus, I’m in the communications track,” Nyota says quickly. “But I’m a student, I don’t work with him, not really.” And then his hand’s on her, gentle on the back of her neck, his fingers slipping under her hair to rest on the skin there and she feels a calm flow over her, laced with a hot, happy joy that makes something in her chest flush warm and thick. “We, uh, I was helping him on a project for some universal translators, though, a little while ago.”

“And you speak Ociramman? Spock mentioned that,” Amanda says and Nyota glances up at him. He doesn’t look at her, still too focused on his debate with Gaila, but his fingers tighten slightly and he pulls her more fully into his side, their bodies just brushing together so that the heat of his skin rolls over her.

“I do,” Nyota says and tries to remember how to carry on a conversation. “Not fluently, though, but I learned as much of it as is in the Academy archives.”

“I went to Ociramman Prime with Spock’s father last year.”

“Oh,” Nyota says. “Really? To the Floating City of V'Vilga? I’ve read so much about it.”

“It was very beautiful,” Amanda says. “I sent Spock some pictures.”

“I’ll have to have him show them to me,” she says, leaning into him a little bit more.

“You know it’s nice to finally meet you,” Amanda says, looking at Nyota and then at her son. “Spock talks about you all the time.”

“Mother. Please.”

“You do,” Amanda says, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “And don’t tell me that after all these years, I finally am able to embarrass you in front of your friends and that you’ll have none of it.”

“That is not-“

“You should have seen him when he was fifteen,” Amanda says quietly, dropping her voice even as she smiles at Spock. “He had this whole group of friends he practiced suus mahna with, and there is nothing like Vulcan teenagers trying to very logically keep their parents from telling stories about them they didn’t necessarily want shared.”

“I have to hear this,” Nyota says, feeling a smile of her own twist at her mouth.

“Mother, it is not necessary to-“

“Shhh,” Nyota says, digging her elbow lightly into Spock’s side before wrapping her arm around his waist. 

“That does not render it-“

“And anyway, shouldn’t we ascribe to the sharing of knowledge so that we’re all better informed?” she asks him.

“Yes, however-“

“Interrupting is illogical,” she says, squeezing his narrow waist, his body strong and warm against hers.

“Exactly, Spock,” Amanda says, her eyes dancing as she looks back and forth  
between them. “But I will give you the choice between sharing the time you were six and wouldn’t come out from under your grandmother’s dinner table, or the time you were three and pulled all the books off the shelf in your father’s study and built a fort.”

“I must go check on the preparations for tonight.”

He’s three times stronger than a human man, and yet when she tightens her arm on him, he stops trying to slip away from her.

“I want to hear the one about the fort,” she says, grinning up at him. “I didn’t know that you had early tendencies towards engineering projects.”

“Then I’ll also have to tell you what he did to his father’s hover bike when he was fourteen.”

“Both were rational decisions, if you and Father had simply listened to my line of reasoning.”

“Is that so,” Amanda says in a tone that suggests that’s not the first time she’s heard Spock say that and when she smiles, broader this time, her son looks like he very much doesn’t want to mirror the expression, but can’t seem to quite help himself, his hand warm and solid on Nyota’s neck and the corner of his mouth curling just ever so slightly.

…

She can’t help but admire the way the candle light flickers over his hand as he reaches to light the last candle.

“And then?” Gaila asks into the silence and even though it makes Nyota want to bury her head in her hand, she has to hand it to her roommate, that she’s been quieter far longer than Nyota’s ever seen her, which is not exactly easy for an Orion to do.

Spock just looks vaguely amused, and Nyota figures he was probably expecting that, was probably counting down the seconds until the likelihood that Gaila’s would finally speak outweighed the chance she would continue to sit there in silence.

Spock doesn’t answer, though, just glances up at Gaila, then over at Nyota, which makes a slightly warm flush spread through her, then returns his attention to the candles in front of him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and even and she lets it wash over her, sinking slightly deeper into the couch, and even Gaila, sitting there next to Nyota, stops fidgeting, her body stilling as the entire room listens to Spock.

“Before the Awakening, when the clans of our people were fractured by war and the sands of the Forge were stained with the blood of those fighting and dying, there was little respite or a chance for peace. The desire for such was even scarcer and times when a family would rest to celebrate their young or honor their dead were opportunities for attack, for the continuation of such savage violence, the likes of which Vulcan has not seen now for centuries.” He pauses for a moment, his focus still on the flames, before he continues. “However, when arivn’van-kal’e rose in the sky, it was at a time of year when the springs had run dry, when crops withered, and when such paucity of resources necessitated a cessation of such brutality. It was the only time of the year that brought peace and we celebrate it still as a reminder of what we once were, and a remembrance of those who lost their lives in those years before we found peace, and as a commitment to honor what is now the Vulcan way, an ongoing peace which will remain unbroken now and forever more.”

Amanda reaches over and lays her fingers in her son’s palm. “And at this time each year, we come together as families to rest and to reconnect, in commemoration of ancient families and in celebration of every Vulcan family now doing the same.”

“Can I ask a question?” Gaila asks, her hand sticking straight up in the air.

“Yes,” Spock says.

“What does paucity mean?”

“You are incorrigible,” Nyota mutters, shaking her head.

“No, I don’t think that’s the right definition, Ms I-Know-The-Definition-To-“ 

Thaalan dumps a dictionary into Gaila’s lap, pulled from one of Thex and Schori’s bookshelf and Gaila laughs loudly, cutting herself off.

“Paucity,” Amanda says, smiling at Gaila. “Is something that we are lucky enough to not have to endure any longer.”

“Luck is-“

“Illogical,” Amanda says, patting Spock’s knee. “As always. But you’d be surprised, dear.”

“May I walk you home?” he asks, later, when Gaila’s sitting on N'Takim’s lap and talking to Didiza, and Schori and Thex are speaking quietly in the corner, their heads bowed towards each other, and as Gouth and Trav are arguing with Yeinydd over whether ceramic or plastic pots are superior for Yeinydd’s dormant phase over the winter.

“Didn’t you need to-?“ she asks, nodding back to the house where his mom is still talking with Thaalan. Nyota had just said goodbye to her and had been zipping up her coat, trying to find Spock in the shifting crowd when he appeared at her elbow.

“I told her I would be back in a moment.”

“Oh,” she says, her hands fluttering over her scarf, tightening it around her neck, and down the front of her jacket as she adjusts it so that it sits rights, and then over the cuffs of her sleeves as she tugs them over her hands, before she realizes she hasn’t answered him because she’d been too busy anticipating having him all to herself for a couple minutes. “Yes, of course.”

It’s cold outside, her breath making a white cloud in front of her mouth, and she stuffs her hands into her pockets, then thinks better of it and crosses them in front of her, burrowing deep into her scarf.

“It’s nice to meet your mom,” she says once they’re at the top of the big hill outside Thex and Schori’s house. “I like her a lot.”

“I believe she returns that sentiment.”

“She said that?” Nyota asks, her heart skipping slightly. “Really?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

She feels him glance at her. “Rather, I meant that I could discern as much. We share a familial bond.”

“Oh, that’s neat. That’s so cool, so you can- I don’t even know what to ask. What’s that even like?”

He opens his mouth to respond, then draws it a breath and lets it out again. “I am not certain I am quite able to put it into words.”

“Can you… feel it, or sense it, or whatever when you’re not together?”

“Yes.”

“That must be really nice.”

“It is, especially considering the distance between here and Vulcan.”

“And even more when you ship out on the Enterprise.”

“Precisely.”

“I wish humans could have that,” Nyota says. “Or, well, humans other than your mother. She got lucky, obviously. Illogicalness and all.”

“She has expressed that she, also, believes that she is quite fortunate with her circumstances.”

“Well, it’s better than a comm call, I bet,” Nyota says and wraps her arms a little tighter around herself.

“Have you been able to speak with your own parents recently?”

“Yeah, a little.” She grins at him and bumps her arm into his shoulder. “Told them I met this guy who knows when the sun sets down the minute.”

“The second.”

“Oh, well now they’ll be extra impressed.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, I had to leave out the part about how you can reprogram universal translators in your sleep with one had behind your back, so that extra fact about your time keeping ability will be really important now.”

“You were not able to impress that upon them?”

“They had to go. Work and all. And I had class anyway,” she says, trying to keep her tone as light as it had been.

“That is unfortunate.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” she says, then tightens her arms around herself a bit more.

“Nyota?”

“I just really miss them,” she says and wishes her voice didn’t threaten to crack like that.

He stops right there on the sidewalk a half a block from the Academy gates, and grips her upper arm, his eyes gentle and soft.

“Are you well?” he asks when she pushes her face into his jacket and takes a deep, long, shivering breath.

“Yeah,” she nods, pulling back and running her hand down the front of his coat, tugging slightly on the hem and worrying at it between her fingers. She’s pretty sure some of her classmates from Orthography just walked by, but she ignores them, focusing instead on the warmth of Spock’s hands seeping through her coat from where he’s moved to cup her shoulders.

“Will you see them over the holidays?”

“No, I thought that maybe they’d come back, but they can’t.”

“And your siblings?”

“Also busy.” She twists the hem of his jacket in her fingers. “Gaila will be here, though.”

“Is that so.”

“Yeah.” She rubs her thumb over the fabric. “It’s not the same.”

“I expect that it is not.”

“Literally,” she says and tries to give him a small smile. 

“Literally,” he answers.

“Um,” she says after a long moment, when she’s still playing with his jacket and his hands are still on her, warm and heavy on her shoulders.

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

She starts to speak, then stops, then starts again, then just takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“I’ve obviously never dated a half Vulcan before.”

“That was not a question,” he says and she smiles slightly and tugs at his coat.

“I know.” She takes a step closer to him, unable to stop herself from moving towards his body. “I guess that I just want to say that I don’t want to do anything that’s not ok… or do something wrong? To mess this up?” She pulls lightly at his jacket again. “You’ve ended up being pretty important to me, mister.”

His hands tighten on her shoulders and she feels his thumb rub over her collarbone.

“I will admit that I have not successfully carried the type of relationship that I would like to have with you,” he says, his voice so quiet and low that it seems to reverberate somewhere deep down in her chest. 

“You’ve haven’t, uh… with humans?”

“I dated a fair amount when I first arrived on Earth as a cadet, but not in any sustainable or enduring capacity.”

“And since then?” she asks, finding herself caring about this line of questioning in a way that makes her hand tighten on the front of his coat.

“Since then I have not found that it engendered the type of experience I thought it might.”

“Oh.”

“However, I have contemplated the correlation between the individual with which I was engaged in the process and its success.”

“And?” she asks, feeling a grin tug at her mouth.

“And I have drawn the conclusion that perhaps I simply was undertaking such an endeavor with someone with whom I was not especially compatible.”

“That does make a difference,” she says, biting at the inside of her cheek and trying, and failing to staunch how wide her smile is.

“I believe so.”

“Probably a big difference,” she says, dropping her grip on his jacket to hold his waist between her hands.

“I would welcome the opportunity to further explore the association between the success of such an undertaking with how it pertains to specific individuals.” 

“Oh. Good. I could probably help you out with that, you know.”

“You did prove rather helpful with baking.”

“I did, so I have prior experience giving you a hand.”

“And you were quite obliging with your assistance with the language tutorial modules in the xenolinguistics lab.”

“I’m nearly entirely certain that you could have figured that out on your own.”

“It might not have been as efficient.”

“Efficient? Really, you’re going to chalk asking me to help you all afternoon up to efficiency?”

“Enjoyable,” he corrects.

“Oh,” she says as a warmth blossoms through her chest. “You don’t say.”

That furrow that she’s really quite fond of appears between his brows.

“I believe I just said that.”

“I know,” she says, and then reaches up and smooths her thumb over that spot. He leans into her touch, his eye fluttering briefly closed. His skin is warm and dry and it’s hard to drop her hand from him so she doesn’t, just lets it slide around to the back of his head as she leans forward to rest her forehead against his chin. He’s so warm and she’s so happy, and his thumb is still circling over her shoulder and she doesn’t stop herself from wrapping her other arm around his waist and leaning into him.

A loud laugh from across the street startles her and she realizes only belatedly how long they’ve been standing there like that, pedestrians and cars, and probably more of her classmates and his coworkers streaming around them. She takes a slight step back from him, glancing over his shoulder at the group on the other side of the street, a mass of humans walking and laughing together, and it’s startling, slightly unexpected that the world has continued to carry on, that they’re not the only two people, quite lost up in each other.

“I will see you tomorrow, perhaps,” Spock says, giving her shoulders one last squeeze before his hands drop from her. She immediately misses their heat, immediately wants to press back into him and never let go. “If you are not too busy with your work.”

“That’d be good. I mean, I am, finals and all coming up, but…” She reaches out and runs her fingers over the back of his hand. “I still want to see you.”

“I will call you after your classes,” he says, then leans down and gives her a soft, gentle kiss.

“Night,” she says when he slowly pulls back.

“Goodnight, Nyota,” he says and she feels him watch her walk the rest of the way to the gates, and feels the lingering warmth of his touch on her long after she’s back in her room, her thoughts full of him as she tries to go to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

“Stop it,” she instructs. “No talking. I have too much fun with you and I have to finish this paper.”

“You are able to finish it in the next thirteen minutes?”

“No. Yes. Almost. Shhh.”

It’s not his fault, since she’s the one having trouble concentrating. She hardly wants to be writing about historical interpretations of Klingon adverbs and how theories of their etymology have changed over time. But it’s finals and the heavy weight of the end of the term is sitting in a knot of tension behind her forehead.

“We really only have thirteen minutes?” she asks, scrubbing her thumb and forefinger into her eyes. “Until we have to leave for Thex and Schori’s?”

“Yes, however it is not incumbent upon you to attend, if you need to finish your work.”

“It’s not due until tomorrow afternoon,” she says, scrolling through her paper and glancing over everything she’s written that day. It’s an interesting topic and she’s enjoyed it, and enjoyed it all the more when Spock met her with his own work in the café they always go to. And she got a lot done, really, and it wasn’t until the last half hour or so that her brain seemed to finally give up after a long week of classes and an entire weekend full of work that she was trying to finish so that she could carve out the hours to go to Thex and Schori’s. And to see Spock for something other than simply having him near her while she bends over padds of research and flashcards. 

His hand covers hers and she toys idly with his fingers while she continues to scrutinize her padd like it will give her the answer of whether or not it’s ok to set aside for the evening.

“It is.”

“Huh?”

He starts to draw his hand back, but she grabs at his fingers and won’t let him. 

“I apologize, I did not intend to so clearly discern your train of thought.”

She looks down at her fingers tangled with his, his hand so much bigger than hers.

“That’s kind of neat. You could… hear that?”

“It is considered rather rude to perceive other’s thoughts without their permission.”

“Oh.” She runs her thumb over his. “Well, there is no offense where none is taken.” She gives his hand a little squeeze. “And you think it’s ok to not skip out on social events and not finish my paper? I don’t think I’ve ever actually done that, I’m normally in the library editing things that don’t need it, long past midnight. Gaila might have a heart attack or ask to see my ID.”

“I hope not literally.”

“Literally I’m normally in the library being neurotic over my work? That was literal. Not the part about Gaila.”

She feels the warm tingle of his amusement flow through her hand. “I would not induce you to act in a way which causes discomfort or would interfere with your enjoyment of the evening, but if you believe your paper can be completed at a later time and would like to attend the gathering tonight then you should make the logical decision.”

“You want to go,” she says.

“I will stay here with you, if you would like.”

“I want to, too, Spock. And isn’t a Deltan coming tonight?” She passes her thumb over his again. “Gaila’s always going on and on about Deltans so I’m not sure I could live down missing it.”

She remembers, abruptly, exactly what Gaila says about them, specifically about their telepathy, and specifically about pertinent uses for such, and jerks her hand from his like she’s been burnt, but not before she can be certain he didn’t ascertain exactly where her mind wandered.

“Senva,” he says and looks over at her to catch her staring at him, trying to discern in the dim lighting of the café if his cheeks are stained slightly green like she thinks they might be.

“Senva?”

“She is the one hosting us tonight. She lived on Earth when I was in my fourth year at the Academy and has returned to attend a wedding.”

“Oh.”

“She lives on Mira Prime now. I believe she is training to be a doctor.”

“Huh.”

“She extended her trip to be able to rejoin the group for an evening.”

“Didn’t realize that,” she says and is about to ask him if he is, in fact, babbling, when he speaks again.

“She and Thaalan were quite… close.”

“No,” she says, pausing in gathering her padds. “Really?”

“Indeed.”

“Really, really?”

“Schori knows more about the circumstances than I do,” he says, sliding his own padds into his bag. It’s weird to her, sometimes, that he’s creating the very assignments that other cadets – some of whom she knows – will be completing for his classes.

“You’re not up on all the gossip?”

“I admit that my knowledge is somewhat lacking.”

She takes his hand again as they step out into the cold night air, raising her other hand to draw her scarf up higher on her neck, thankful at least that she wore jeans and a sweater instead of trying for a skirt in such chilly weather.

“It’s freezing,” she declares. “What happened to summer?”

“A curious circumstance of your planet’s orbit.”

“Next you’re going to tell me that this happens every year,” she says, trying to both hitch her school bag up on her shoulder and pull her sleeve farther down over her hand to keep her fingers warm, which proves impossible without also letting go of Spock and that’s just not happening.

“Let me,” he says, stopping her for a moment and reaching with his free hand to take the strap of her bag and sling it over his shoulder on top of his own. 

“Gonna carry a girl’s books, Spock?”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, it’s from hundreds of years ago. Never mind. Thank you.” She sticks her hand into her pocket and burrows deeper into her scarf. “Tell me about Thaalan.”

“As I said, I do not know much. And Vulcans are not particularly predisposed to sharing such information, regardless.”

“Says the guy who brought it up. And anyway, you know that they’re all talking about us, so it’s really only logical to return the favor.”

“They are?” he asks and she can feel a tickle of surprise from him. 

“Definitely. But Gaila informed me the other night that apparently we’re ‘boring’ and ‘dull’ and ‘get along too well’ to actually make it interesting.”

“I see.”

“Thaalan,” she says, tugging lightly at his hand. “Spill.”

“Spill what? I am not holding anything.”

“The beans.”

“Which beans, specifically?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve lived among humans for so long and have never heard that phrase.”

“I cannot tell you that, that is true.”

“You’re terrible,” she says, tugging at his hand again and grinning.

“Thaalan met Senva at one of these very gatherings,” Spock says and she has to smile again.

“Popular place to meet someone.”

“Indeed,” he says and she feels him squeeze her hand. Then he pauses, just slightly, before he continues. “Thaalan was expected – is expected, I should say – to marry an Andorian.”

“And that was a deal breaker?”

“I do not know if their relationship might have continued despite such a fact, but Senva was accepted to an internship off-planet and they decided to not pursue the matter.”

“Was he upset?”

“Quite.”

“And now she’s back? That’s tough, to run into an ex. Unless he doesn’t come tonight.”

“His comments to myself and Thex have indicated that he is not displeased to encounter her again, nor he, her.”

“But they’re not… they can’t, because someday he’s supposed to marry someone else?” Nyota asks, feeling like that’s really incredibly unfair. 

“Indeed.”

“Can’t he just… not? If he wants to be with her?” she asks, then pushes her hand a bit farther into her pocket. “Or maybe that’s kind of a big decision for him.”

“I believe that it is.”

Nyota’s quiet as they wait at a stoplight and only when they’ve crossed to the other side of the street does she look up at him again.

“Your parents do it.”

“Do what, specifically?”

“You know what I mean. Have an interspecies marriage.”

“That is correct,” he says and it’s funny because whenever she touches his hand she always feels something, some tingle or prickle or quiver of emotion that’s different than touching a human’s hand, or even the other myriad of species she’s come into contact with while at the Academy, but now it’s like nothing at all, just his skin warm and dry and none of that underlying sense of his thoughts or mood that normally skates beneath the surface.

“You would have to,” she says slowly, looking up at him even though he’s staring off down the street. But he hasn’t drawn his hand away, either, and she just holds it that much tighter. “It would always be interspecies for you, you have no choice, even with a Vulcan.”

“That is also correct,” he repeats.

He still isn’t really looking at her, so she tugs on his hand until he stops walking and she leans up to kiss his cheek.

“It’s not a big deal,” she tells him.

“It is. Or it can be.”

“It’s not. I think, frankly, that being different ranks is harder than being different species, which is temporary. Unless, of course, I don’t turn in my paper tomorrow and fail my course and am a cadet for the rest of the foreseeable future.”

“That would be unfortunate,” he says. “And exceedingly unlikely.”

She stands on her toes and presses a soft kiss to his mouth and only then does she feel a tremble prick across her fingers, the touch of his skin on hers heady and sweet. 

It’s only later, when they’re at Thex and Schori’s, hanging up their coats and saying hi to everyone, that she realizes the actual amount of time that will have to pass before she’s not a cadet, and even then she’ll in all likelihood be an ensign, or at the very best and barring some unforeseen circumstances, a Lieutenant Junior Grade, assigned to a communications bay even if it’s on the Enterprise. It would be a long, long time until she’s earned anywhere near the amount of prestige and accolades he has in his own career and that thought, all the intervening years until she has any hope of being a section chief or bridge officer, makes her stomach flip around funnily, makes something in her chest constrict as she looks at him bend down and help retrieve part of Didiza that got smeared against the side of the couch. A long time, and yet thinking back on their walk, on that amusement and hot, happy delight that seems to pass between them whenever they touch, that didn’t seem to bother either one of them, even a little bit.

…

“Listen,” Senva instructs. “Feel.”

Nyota’s pressed against Spock’s arm and both of them are crowded into the doorway of the living room since, as ever, there are hardly enough seats for everyone, even with Gaila curled up on N'Takim’s lap. Schori’s in the overstuffed arm chair near the window, her hand spread on her massive belly and Thex perched on the arm of the chair.

Thaalan is sitting next to Senva and Nyota doesn’t think she’s seen him take his antennae off of her all night.

“Feel what?” Gaila asks, then claps both hands to her mouth. “Sorry!” she whispers through her fingers.

“Each other,” Senva explains, seemingly unperturbed, her fingers spread on her knees where she’s sitting cross legged by Thex and Schori’s fireplace. Her pale blue robes are spread on the floor around her, making a beautiful puddle of silky fabric on the floor. She turns to each of them, one a time, her eyes seeming slightly discerning large in combination with her lack of hair and her calm, serene expression. “On the sixth day of H’y’ni we gather together and solidify our bonds with each other, blending our minds, our memories of the year, combining our hopes and plans for the future as we do so. And we reach out to our families and our friends along our bonds with them, finding and remembering what their minds feel like. You know,” she says, turning to Spock. “You have the bonds of your family.”

“Yes,” he says, nodding.

“And others, as well,” Senva says. It makes his chin come up slightly, makes his entire body lock up, his frame tensing and stiffening. Nyota can actually hear the sound his throat makes when he swallows. “Perhaps the best parallel would be if you were to hold hands with each other, as many of you are not psi sensitive.”

Nyota reaches for Spock’s hand, intending to maybe take the opportunity to ask him what’s wrong, but she feels a slight tap on her calf and Didiza has extended a long, purple tendril up to the hand she was going to grab Spock’s with.

“Hi, didn’t see you there,” Nyota says, bending down and unsticking the bit of Didiza that was left behind on her pant leg. It’s warm and wet and hard to hold on to, but as soon as Nyota passes it back to her, Didiza promptly resorbs it.

“Spock do you have-“ she starts, because she’s pretty sure he was holding a napkin, earlier, and her hand is still kind of goopy, but when she looks up to finish asking him, he’s gone. “What-“ Didiza’s appendage points behind Nyota, towards the back of the house. “Sorry, I-“ Nyota starts, but Didiza gives her a small pat on the leg again, which Nyota hands back quickly, and then she flows away, off to tap on Eraow’s leg instead of Nyota’s.

He’s not in the kitchen, and she retreats, briefly, to grab her coat before stepping out into the backyard.

“Hey.” She wraps her jacket tighter around herself and wishes she had bothered to grab her scarf. “You busy with super important first officer business out here?” He glances up from where he’s studying one of the plants in the garden. She’s sure he knows exactly what type of plant it is, and therefore it can’t exactly merit his full attention no matter how closely he’s examining it, so she’s not really that surprised when he only shakes his head and doesn’t answer her. “Are you going to come inside?” she asks when he remains silent. 

“In a moment.”

She lets the door fall shut behind her and walks the short distance to his side.

“You ok?”

“I am not unwell.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“About what precisely?”

“Well, we could chat about that plant or why you’re standing outside in the freezing cold instead of being inside with all of your friends.”

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, without turning to fully face her.

“It is an eriogonum fasciculatum. Thex planted it before I left on the Lexington and it has grown considerably.”

“Plants do that, I hear.”

“I was bonded. When I was seven.” He has a peculiarly blank look about him, so different than how he normally is. “We dissolved the relationship when I left for the Academy, but such a link leaves residual traces in the mind, which Senva can discern.”

“Ok,” she says, taking a step towards him.

“I do not wish to speak of the matter further.”

“You don’t have to,” she assures him, wondering if it would be ok to touch him.

“The dissolution of that relationship was a significant event in my life. I would not want… I believe that you should know that.”

“I understand.” She takes a third step towards him, so that if she shifted a little their arms would touch. She doesn’t, though, just waits there next to him and looks down at the plant he was studying. “I bet that’s pretty in the summer.”

“You do not appear to be troubled by this information.”

“I-“ she starts, then pauses to gather the words she wants to use. “I have exes too, Spock. And I’ll listen to you as much or as little as you want to talk about this, but if you say that you just wanted to tell me about the fact that it happened at all, then that’s fine.” She bumps her elbow into his. “I happen to be a fan of your formative experiences in your life, whether it was sneaking chocolate – which I want to see you do someday – or other parts of your past, because it’s made you… you.“ She pauses and shrugs, looking up at him even though he’s not looking back. “You’re pretty great, what can I say?”

“Truly?”

“Yep.” She leans her elbow against his again and leaves it there this time.

“You were not privy to the conversation in which my relationship with my bondmate ended.”

“She obviously didn’t appreciate what an incredible person you are,” she says, leaning more fully against him. “How illogical.”

His arm curls around her shoulders and she stays there for a long time, leaning her head on his chest, his hand stroking slowly over her upper back, leaving lines of warmth through the thick fabric of her coat.

“Wanna get out of here?” she finally asks, her words muffled by his jacket.

They slip out of the party quietly – he’s already wearing his coat and she stops to grab her scarf and their bags and then they’re out on the sidewalk, the back of their hands brushing together, and then their fingers tangling as they walk.

She leans against his kitchen counter while he makes them tea, watching the way his hands move and the long lines of his body, trying to imagine anyone not wanting him.

“Yum,” she declares, when he hands her a mug, sitting with her legs crossed on his couch and cupping it with both hands.

“My mother brought it with her from Vulcan.”

“It’s really good.”

“There is a vendor at a market near the Embassy who has this variety in stock at times.”

“Really? I don’t think I knew that was even there.”

“I will take you,” he offers. “Whenever is convenient.”

“That’d be fun. I have this paper left and a test on Thursday, then I’m done.” She stares into her tea for a moment before glancing up at him. “Though I guess you have a lot of grading to do.”

“Yes.”

“Bummer,” she declares, trying to shrug away how her stomach’s sinking slightly at the realization that he’ll be working even though she has a break.

“I believe that is an apt descriptor,” he says, then pauses to take a sip of his tea. “Do you have plans for your vacation?”

“Might try to spend some time with this guy I just started seeing.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty into him,” she says with a grin. “I’ll see if he wants to hang out at all.”

“Hang out?”

She grins again, raising one shoulder to her ear. “You know, hang out. Watch a movie.”

“Is that euphemism?”

“Could be,” she says, running her fingers over his knee.

He looks down at her hand, then back up at her, arching an eyebrow in a way that makes her smile at him.

“Next Sunday is Christmas Eve,” he says and it’s quite nearly like a question, one she doesn’t answer, just rubs at the fabric of her pants with her thumb and palms the hard, hot muscle of his thigh. “You should be aware that as of yet, I have been tasked with representing Terran celebrations.”

“How’d that go?” 

“I believe you can deduce the way in which we have never actually celebrated a Terran holiday as an indication of the effectiveness of reasoning that due to my half human genetics, I was qualified in any way to carry out any rituals or traditions.”

“You never celebrated any holidays with your mom?” 

“We did not.” He pauses and she looks up from her hand on him to see that expression he gets when he’s thinking about something, like his focus is drawing inward for a brief moment. “I find that as an adult, I rather wish I had known more about that side of my heritage.”

“But I don’t exactly see you as dressing up for Halloween,” she points out since she doesn’t really want to talk about the winter holidays. “So you might have to be selective about getting in touch with your roots.”

“I am rather pleased to have passed by yet another Halloween this year with only a handful of coworkers questioning whether or not I would be partaking.”

“You’re lucky I had that terrible Interstellar Nav midterm due that Monday or I would have dragged you out to a party.”

“Then I am duly prepared for next year, to make recommendations to your professors as to their examination schedules,” he says and she laughs, a too-wide smile stretching across her face at the thought of her, and him, and a length of time together that stretches forward for a year, and then beyond that.

“Is all of this your way of saying that you want to learn how to make a gingerbread house, Spock?”

“No.”

“Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

“They’re pretty illogical.”

“I surmised as much.”

“I spent an entire morning making a completely perfect gumdrop chimney for mine. I think I was six, maybe. Or seven. And my brother ate it while I was at soccer practice and I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over that moment, coming home and it just being… gone.”

“That sounds rather traumatic.”

“You better be being serious, mister,” she says, grinning at him over the rim of her mug. He fingers find her wrist and trace over it, the wash of warmth making her shiver.

“I have been told that Vulcans are rarely anything but.”

“I don’t know about that at all,” she says lightly. “Though maybe that explains why I’m rather partial to half Vulcan, half-humans.”

“Is that so?” 

“I’ll tell you if it is if you promise to dress up for Halloween someday.”

“As what?” he asks and she grins at the note of trepidation coloring his tone.

“You can’t be a Starfleet officer. And don’t even pretend that’s not your first choice.”

“What if I wore a command or operations uniform?”

“Nope, no way, doesn’t count.”

“Duly noted,” he says and she reaches out to touch the corner of his mouth where it’s pulling up in a tiny smile. “However, as Halloween has already passed – a fact for which I am immeasurably grateful – you have the opportunity to choose a different Terran holiday if you would like, as a number are quickly approaching.”

She stares at the way her hand looks against his skin, draws her thumb over his chin and under his jaw, looking at that instead of into his eyes even though she can feel him studying her.

“I don’t know.”

“You do not have to. Thaalan simply wished me to inquire of you whether you would be interested in sharing.” He pauses, then adds, “I know you are busy with your exams. As it was my responsibility for so long, I am willing to offer my assistance in your preparations, if that is the source of your reluctance.”

“Are you feeling like you’re remiss in your duties?” she asks lightly, hoping he’ll change to subject away from human holidays. 

“I am simply seeking to ascertain the process through which one constructs a domicile out of gingerbread.”

“It’s a complicated process. You need very precise architectural skills and lots of frosting.”

“It seems that it might be a daunting task.” His hand has found its way to her knee his fingers lightly circle her kneecap through her pants. “Holidays often are, I understand.”

She stares down at his hand, frowns at it.

“I get really homesick and sad and I don’t want to be around everyone.” She says without looking at him. “It’s nothing, it’s fine, I probably shouldn’t even feel like that because it’s my planet and you all are so far from your families and-“

“That does not render you not far from your own family,” he says softly and when she looks at him, he’s watching her closely, his eyes warm and soft. “Nor does it serve as a cause to invalidate how you feel.”

“It’s all too Terran, anyway, you all live on Earth and you don’t want more of our culture, I’m sure.”

“I am not as sure of that, as Thaalan is not the first to express interest in your sharing of a holiday with us.”

“I’m busy, like you said, with school.”

“If you do not want to host an evening at Thex and Schori’s, it is not inappropriate to simply say so.”

“Ok,” she says, swallowing. “I miss my parents.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t like the holidays.”

“That is an acceptable sentiment.” He squeezes her knee, his touch so gentle that she has to close her eyes, something thick and heavy forming in her throat. “What did you do this time last year? Was that, perhaps, something you would like to repeat?”

“I went to the bar with Kirk,” she says, then quickly shakes her head, her eyes opening to look at him. “I don’t like him, we’re not friends.”

“I see.”

“We’re not.”

“Very well.”

“He’s annoying.”

“I have been told as much, by yourself and others.”

“Ok, good, I don’t want you to think I actually enjoy his company or anything.”

“I trust your declarations on the matter.”

“He’s going to Georgia with McCoy this year for Christmas,” she sighs. “So he won’t be around.”

“Is Christmas what your family celebrates?” Spock asks. “My mother was raised to celebrate Hanukkah, so to the extent that she even spoke of traditions typical of the time of year of the Terran winter solstice, that is what I am familiar with.”

“We did Christmas,” she nods. “My grandmother also celebrated Jamhuri Day with us, but we mostly did Christmas in our house.”

“Hence the gingerbread houses.”

“Hence,” she repeats in agreement, unable to keep her self from smiling slightly at the word. “New Years,” she finally says after he’s spent a long time stroking just above her knee with his thumb. “I’ll do New Years Eve, if that works, next Sunday.”

“Excellent.”

“It’s kind of a cop out, all we need is champagne.”

“I have never consumed champagne, so I await the experience with great curiosity.”

“It’s good, bubbly.” She picks at the handle of her mug, running her nails over it, down and then back up again. “Spock?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to… are you busy over Christmas or will you be around?”

“I do not have any prior commitments.”

“Ok.” She stares into her tea, watches the steam twist and curl as it rises. “Will you try to keep any prior commitments from coming up?”

“Of course. Is there something specific that you would like to do?”

“No. Pizza. Movie, maybe, like I said earlier.” She squints over at him. “Do you even eat pizza or watch movies?”

“As I said, I am unfamiliar with the bulk of Terran customs, so perhaps you can educate me.”

She nods, then sets her tea on his coffee table, takes his mug from his hands and puts it next to hers, and then leans over and kisses him.

He’s so gentle with her, like she might break, so it’s her who deepens their kiss, tugging at his lips with hers and letting her tongue slide against his.

Then his fingers curl around the back of her thigh, hot and strong, and she finds herself lifted into his lap, finds herself held there by that hand that is now smoothing over her ass and his other cupped around the back of her head.

It’s so good like this, his hips trapped between her knees, his hands pressing her forward into his body, and his mouth wet and eager.

He nips at her bottom lip when she slides her hands down his chest, then back up, palming at his slim, strong body, and he holds her head still in his large hand, his tongue exploring her mouth when she slips her fingers under the hem of his shirt to splay over his taut stomach.

She draws back, finally, when she’s breathless and about to start working his shirt up and off of him, and closes her eyes so that she doesn’t have to look at him while she says this, since it’s already hard enough.

“I’m going to go do the responsible thing and go home since it’s the middle of finals,” she says, then lets out an annoyed sigh. “Even though I really, really don’t want to.”

“Logical,” he says and she can’t help but look at how his mouth moves when he speaks, despite how it makes her want to kiss him again.

Instead, she sits back so that her weight is resting on his knees, and lets her hands slip down to hold onto his forearms, his own hands spread on her thighs.

“And to think that I considered Interstellar Nav the toughest part of this term, not leaving here tonight.”

“A relative measure,” he says and she grimaces and nods and then stands up and moves away from him before she can talk herself out of it.

He kisses her cheek once she has her coat on and her scarf wrapped around her neck, and it’s a good thing because if they start kissing again, she’s going to probably push him back into his bedroom and deal with the repercussions of that decision in the morning.

“I would tell you good luck on your finals, but it would be illogical to do so.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” she murmurs, distracted since with him standing there so close to her, she’s suddenly remembering the firmness of his body under her hands. 

Walking home, she wonders if she’s just going to be thinking about him all night anyway, if it wouldn’t have been better to just stay, but he has work in the morning too, and new boyfriend or not, she isn’t exactly one to have her responsibilities very far from her mind, and she hardly wants to be thinking of anything other than him.

Starfleet, she decides as she climbs the steps up to her dorm instead of drawing his body of her hers and letting him push her into his mattress, is pretty much the worst. Or would be, if it hadn’t brought him into her life.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/23/14 So these last few chapters were supposed to be spread out over the last two weeks, but with finals and all I got behind… so here’s the final installment of ‘things I am trying to get posted before Christmas’, and you can look for the thrilling sequel ‘the chapter about New Years’ some time before New Years. I hope everyone is having a lovely, happy, and joyous holiday season! And, moreover, Happy Festivus!!!

There is something peculiar about campus during the break between semesters. Even with so many non-Terrans at the Academy, and even with the fact that human students are drawn from all over Earth and therefore it’s hardly that every student celebrates Christmas or Hannukah or even any of the other popular winter solstice holidays, there’s something about the dark and quiet of the deepest part of winter that seems to make everyone want to turn on lights, eat rich food, and be together.

And together, for her, means lounging on Spock’s couch while he grades papers.

“No, it’s distracting, I’m being distracting, I don’t want to bother you,” she says when he glances over at her padd for a second time, the flickering images on it obviously catching his eye.

“It is hardly distracting,” he assures her. “I have been trained to have sufficient mental discipline that you can watch a movie while I work.”

“Maybe it’s just mortifying to know that you’ve seen the type of holovids I like.”

“I am not particularly disposed to registering such an emotional response.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to keep you from teasing me,” she grumbles, but sinks deeper into his couch and doesn’t turn it off. Gaila would never approve of her selection, but Gaila’s not there on the couch next to her, Spock is, and she’s rather content with that fact.

True to his word, he keeps up his usual brisk efficiency and doesn’t look over at her padd again. And having him studying padd after padd from the neat stack he has on the coffee table gives her plenty of time to just study him, which she finds way more interesting than the movie.

And he’s so close and how often does she really have him all to herself – or all to herself along with a few dozen padds – that she can’t help but shift so that her back is against the arm of the couch and her feet are close enough to tuck under his thigh.

“My feet are cold,” she explains when he glances down at them.

“Are your socks not sufficient?”

“This is better.” She tilts her head to the side in an approximation of him. “But are you not a feet-on-the-couch kind of guy?”

“It is of no consequence.”

“Good,” she says, because the space between his leg and the couch cushion is warm and cozy, and it’s better still when he wraps one large hand around her ankle, idly stroking his thumb over her skin.

She really can’t focus on her movie, which she would like to think is because of having worked so hard over finals and her concentration being shot, but in reality she knows has much, much more to do with her ability to study his profile as he reads through the padd he’s holding.

And she can’t even keep her gaze and thoughts on anything appropriate about him, but instead is hungrily examining how his mouth looks, how his shirt fits him, and is imagining what it would be like to taste his neck, to tip his head back and nip at the underside of his jaw.

“That is distracting.”

“Hmm?” she asks, then startles in understanding and raises her padd to cover her face. “Oh God. You can… hear that?”

“You are thinking rather loudly,” he says and when she drops the padd, she doesn’t think she’s imagining the green flush that’s spreading up his neck.

“Sorry,” she says, bites her lip, then can’t help but grin at him. 

She gets one of those soft smiles in return, the kind that makes her heart flutter in her chest, and he tugs down the hem of her jeans before replacing his hand on her, this time with the barrier of denim between their skin. 

“I have nearly completed these.”

“Good, cause otherwise I think I might need a cold shower.”

That flush deepens and she watches his throat work as he swallows, even though he admirably doesn’t look up from his work again.

She’s helping herself to a glass of water – or she otherwise probably would just try to crawl across the couch and come up with a logical reason for him abandoning his duties – when he pads into the kitchen and comes to stand behind her.

She can feel her skin prick, her entire back tingle with awareness, he’s so close to her, and she has to concentrate on putting her glass back on his counter carefully, so that she doesn’t just drop it. 

When she turns, her shoulder grazes against his chest and there’s not really room for her between him and the cabinets behind her, which she finds she’s really quite ok with.

“You’re done?” she asks, her mouth too dry for having just had a sip of water.

“I am.”

“With everything?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… that’s good.”

“Indeed.”

She wets her lower lip with her tongue, then scrapes her teeth over it, staring up at him, watching the way he’s watching her, intense and heated, so that his gaze goes right through her, starts a jump in her stomach that makes her breath short.

“It’s Saturday night, we could go out,” she says. “Get some dinner.”

“That is a distinct possibility.”

“Like, actually go on a date, if we’re going to date each other.”

“That option is open to us.”

“Or,” she says, slowly drawing the word out.

She flexes her toes against the tile of his kitchen. The air feels charged between them, tension and nerves and anticipation crackling back and forth and she seems to be able to only focus on the details about him, the way his collar lays against his neck, the very tip of his ear, the way his hand flexes, once, and she wonders if he’s even known he’s done that, like his fingers might give away something he’s not even conscious of.

She raises her hand and dips her fingers under his collar, her knuckles against the soft, warm skin of his neck. She tugs at the fabric, then turns her hand over to press the pads of her finger to the muscle that slopes down to his shoulder, his sweater soft on the back of her hand.

He’s quite nearly too tall to kiss when she’s not wearing shoes, and she has to tip her head back too far, has to wrap her arm over the back of his neck to hold him there while she presses her mouth against his. Her other hand continues to explore the hot skin of his upper back, palming over the hard line of his spine, the way his muscles shift as his arms come around her.

She takes a step back when his palm spreads on the front of her hip and he pushes, and then the counter is behind her, as solid and firm as the press of his body into hers. His hand grasps her hip, big enough that she can feel his thumb dig lightly into the hollow of her hipbone and the tips of his fingers grip into her ass and she pulls back from his mouth with a wet smack, draws in a shivering breath and changes angles to kiss him again, her hand rising from under his shirt to scrabble over the short hairs on the back of his head.

When he pulls away, she’s slightly shocked that the world still exists outside of the pull of his lips, the way his nose bumps against her cheek, and the soft sounds their mouths make against each other.

“We, ah, should perhaps-“ he says and she follows him into his bedroom, a room she’s never been in before and she wants to look around, take it in, but he’s sitting on the edge of his bed to take off his socks and it’s so endearingly awkward and charming that she doesn’t think she could look away, even if she tried.

She lets him draw her down next to him, pulls him over her and then it’s his weight on her, warm and hot and heavy, and their legs tangling together and she finds it’s hard to focus on anything except the slide of his tongue against hers, the long line of his back under her searching hands.

But when his hand finds hers, his fingers stroke the length of her palm and curl over her own, she pulls away from his mouth and blinks up at him.

“What if I think about something weird?” she asks, pressing her head back into the pillow to get enough room to look at him.

“Define ‘weird’.”

“You know, like folding socks.”

“Then you will have thought about folding socks,” he says, that furrow deepening between his eyebrows. It’s very nearly her favorite part of him, that way he always thinks so carefully about anything that she’s said. “I cannot ascertain the issue you have with such an occurrence.”

“It’s just that-“ she starts, then shakes her head, her hair whispering against the fabric of his pillowcase.

She feels the weight of his body on hers lessen, feels him shift onto his knees and start to move away from her, inches between them now that weren’t there before.

He lies down next to her, his fingers running over her hair until she releases her grip on his shirt and reaches up to pull out her hair tie, twisting to set it on his bedside table. His hand is in her hair again, immediately, running his fingers through it and loosening it from being tied up so tightly.

“Nyota,” he says gently and she realizes she’s closed her eyes at the feeling of his hand on her.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way, that I don’t want that part of you,” she says, shifting closer to him and crossing her ankle over his calf. “But it’s new.”

“New?” he asks as his hand slips down to her shoulder, and then down to her waist, settling there and doing a really good job distracting her.

“But not unwelcome.” She shifts closer still, so that her knee bumps against his and so that there’s not really room for her arm between their bodies, so she rests it on his shoulder, her hand shifting through the short hair on the back of his head. It’s really soft and silky and she thinks she could just do that for a long time, lay there and touch him like that with his hand warm and firm on her. “I… What if you don’t like what you find?”

“That is your concern?” he asks, one eyebrow climbing up his forehead. His hair is falling away from his face, lying on his side like he is and despite that upswept brow, it makes him look so very nearly human. She can’t help but run her fingers over his forehead, draw her thumb up that eyebrow, and push her fingers through his bangs, thick and smooth between her fingers. “Nyota, I have for so long attempted to not perceive the thoughts of another due to finding a confirmation of a lack of regard for myself, that I believe you could be reciting interstellar navigation equations to yourself and if you continue to feel about me as you do, I would not be particularly bothered.” He pauses, then amends, “Perhaps very slightly bothered. But not overly so.”

“You’re sure?”

“I would not say so if I were not.”

His words make some nameless spot in her chest ache. “I don’t like the idea of people not liking you.”

He slides closer to her, his hand slipping from her waist down to the small of her back and drawing her towards him. “Do not trouble yourself.”

“And Interstellar Nav is kind of a turn off,” she says, scrunching up her nose and grimacing at him.

“Which perhaps we can ameliorate.” He kisses her again, his fingers rising from her waist to thread through her hair. He pauses, releases her mouth, and his breath is a warm wash against her skin as he asks, “Do you have further concerns which should be addressed?”

“Um.” She drags her foot against his ankle, picks at the collar of his sweater. “Anything else I need to know? I’ve only… with humans.”

“I do not believe so.”

It feels good to be close to him like they are, to have him solid and firm and real next to her and she has to remind herself that this is really happening, that it’s not some half imagined daydream, some possibility that has been a ‘maybe’ and then a ‘probably’ and is now solidifying into how his hands feel on her, the dimness of his bedroom, the soft look in his eye that has a hunger behind it she hasn’t ever seen from him before.

“Ok,” she nods, leans forward and kisses him. 

In response, he hooks his hand under her knee, draws it up over his hips and she’s lost again in the pull of his mouth, in running her hand through his hair, over his shoulders, and down the length of his arm to where his hand is still gripping her leg, smoothing up over her thigh as he kisses her until she’s half breathless.

She plucks at the front of his sweater, pulls it up slightly, and then it’s off, dropped off the side of his bed along with the undershirt he had on under it and she’s maybe not entirely prepared to have him on top of her, half naked and bending to kiss her again, his mouth wet and warm and insistent, parting her lips and drawing a hitching, soft noise out of her.

His skin is hot everywhere she touches, limber and loose muscles working under her hands and when she draws her nails down his spine, down that dip between the hard lines of muscles on his back, she feels him pull in a breath against her cheek.

When he pushes her sweater halfway up her stomach, then gives it another tug to rest around her ribs, under the band of her bra, she pulls back from their kiss, their mouths separating with a wet sound and she struggles to sit up, to pull it up and off over her head. 

When he rolls her over on top of him, his hands spanning her back in a wash of warmth, she finds herself wishing that she had listened to Gaila for once and had worn a less plain bra.

“Look,” she says, her hands braced on either side of his head and her fingers twisting into his pillowcase and her hair falling forward around them like a curtain. “I really hope you’re wearing spaceship boxers or something.”

“Pardon?” he asks and she gets a little thrill from how his voice is just a little too breathy, a little less even than it normally is.

“Like with little cartoons of the Potemkin or the Atahmin or even the Farragut.”

“Do they make such garments?” he asks, twining strands of her hair around his fingers, twisting it this way and that.

“Probably,” she shrugs, the gesture far more relaxed than how she’s feeling with her blood pounding through her and the unimaginable reality of his narrow hips between her knees and the way he’s palming her bare back, gripping her thigh, continuing to thread his fingers through her loose hair like he can’t decide what to touch first.

She finds his mouth again and he holds her there, one hand kneading into her back, the other curving around her ass and she takes the opportunity to explore his mouth with her own, to nip at his lips and then pass her tongue over them.

Her bra joins his shirt on the floor and she feels another noise escape her, feels her breath hitch and catch when his thumb passes over her nipple.

“Just-“ she says, some half formed idea of what she wants expressed in a single cut off word and the way she grinds her hips into his, feeling his hand tighten around her thigh and press her down against him.

There’s no room between their bodies to get his pants undone, no way to squirm her hand between them so she just wordlessly jerks at the fabric of his waistband, just kisses him harder, hungrier, letting all her weight fall onto the hand next to his head and her mouth collide with his like that can possibly get the message across.

“There are more effective ways to determine the exact pattern,” he tells her, the words muffled and indistinct against her mouth.

“They’re probably boring and regulation, right?”

“Your powers of deduction are, as ever, unmatched.”

“You sure know what to say to a girl,” she grins against his jaw, sucking lightly and pressing an open mouthed kiss to the underside of his chin.

“Up,” he says, his hands braced on her hips and pushing, gently, but pushing her nonetheless away from him, which is not the direction she particularly wants to move. It does, though, give her enough room to open his pants and work his zipper down.

“Knew it,” she whispers, her fingers scrabbling over the black fabric and trying to both press her hips into his while simultaneously worm his clothes down his legs.

“I apologize if that is disappointing.”

“Not… not disappointing at all,” she says, tugging harder, her eyes glued to the long ridge straining against the fabric.

“That is an inefficient method,” he says and when she looks up at him from where she’s been admiring the deep hollows of his hipbones, the way his taut stomach is rising and falling with his breath, she can make out a green flush spreading over his neck and chest, the color beginning to stain his cheeks.

She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry and her fingers suddenly clumsy at the sight of him like that, how his pupils are wide and dark, the way his lips are slightly parted and wet. There’s a pang down deep in her chest, a tenderness and fullness like her heart is being squeezed.

She leans down and kisses him softly, just gently, her hands abandoning their futile attempts to get his pants off of him and instead spreading over the hard plane of his stomach, pressing down into his skin as she draws her thumbs over his hipbones. She thinks she could just do this, just suck on his lower lip, just tug at it with her own, breathe in how good he smells and the sounds their mouths make for an eternity, never moving from this moment.

It seems like a long time later that he scoots up towards the headboard, his shoulders braced against it as he lifts his hips and hooks his fingers into his waistband, pushing everything down and off and maybe she shouldn’t be staring, but she is.

And then she’s suddenly on her back and she can’t help but grin up at him, at that eyebrow that’s raised like he’s teasing her, and then she can’t help but suck in a quick breath, a cut off gasp when his fingers skate down her stomach, down the front of her jeans.

He kneels above her, his knees framing her hips and she feels his fingers pull at the button of her pants, feels him ease the zipper down. Getting them halfway down her hips seems sufficient for now and she’s not exactly complaining, not with the way his hand is inside her panties and her entire body twitches at the first press of his fingers against her.

She reaches back behind her head to grab at his pillow and she wants to close her eyes, wants to turn her face into her arm and press into her skin like she could crawl out of her own body with what his fingers are doing, but she can’t stop watching the way he’s watching her, not if he’s staring at her like that.

She tries to spread her legs wider but her thighs are caught by her pants and his knees and she scrabbles her fingers into the pillow, catches his forearm with her other hand and feels caught like that, immobile between his bed and his body and his hand, increasingly needy and desperate sounds rising out of her.

“I-“

“Yes?” he asks and damn him, he sounds exactly like himself even when she feels sweaty and shivery and already can feel a hot, racing heat start to shake in her legs.

She licks her lips, finds her mouth is dry, and tries to swallow.

“I want to-“ she says, shoving at the rest of her clothes and he stops long enough to help her, until her pants and panties are yanked down her legs and kicked somewhere towards the foot of his bed and he’s on top of her, against her again.

She can feel how much he likes it, when they’re skin to skin like this. It’s the best part of this, maybe, the warm prickle and tingle everywhere on her skin, a hushed and faint echo of him in her mind like a sound she can barely hear or the faintest sliver of light under a mostly closed door.

“Acceptable?” he asks against her ear and she laughs, clapping a hand to her mouth to stifle it and nodding, wrapping her leg around his waist and shifting to bring him against her.

“Yeah, just – Oh, God, Spock-“

He pushes into her slow and firm and she tips her chin up towards the ceiling, squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a long breath. He’s trembling so hard that she can feel it and she cups his sides, her fingers splaying over the soft skin that covers his ribs. He’s so slim that the bones feel close to the surface and there, under her hand, she can feel the rapid patter of his heart.

He’s moving then, with her, against her, and pleasure concentrates low in her belly, hot and coiled tight like a hook right behind her navel, a heated tremble that she gasps against, her open mouth pressed against his shoulder.

He mumbles something in Vulcan, something that she can’t quite catch over the harsh sounds of breathing and the pounding, pulsing blood rushing through her. She would ask, but her breath catches in her throat, is held there, and she her fingers scramble against his back, and she can only squeeze her eyes shut and cling to him.

It’s over too soon, pleasure coursing through her and drawing a low moan from her throat as his movements jerk to a stop, or maybe it went on forever and she didn’t even notice because when he slides her leg from his waist, her muscles are aching and her fingers feel cramped from where they dug into his back.

She catches his face in her hands, pulls him down and presses a kiss to that spot between his eyebrows, swallowing and pushing her face into his.

“You did not.”

“Hmm?” she asks, running her nose along his cheekbone. “I didn’t what?”

“You did not think of folding your socks.”

She can’t help but let a small laugh escape her in a puff of air, falling back into the bed and grinning up at him.

“I can’t think about anything, all my brain cells are fried.”

“That is unfortunate considering the esteem with which I hold those very synapses.” He’s braced on his hip and arm next to her, his fingers tickling up and down her stomach, light between her breasts and over her collarbone.

“Your own fault,” she points out. “You brought this on yourself.”

“I find that it is truly remarkable that you are able to speak under such circumstances.”

She kicks him, lightly and when she does, her foot connects with what she only belatedly realizes are her pants. He sits up and she takes in those long lines of his back, the green flush and one or two marks that she thinks maybe she must have made with her nails, though she can’t remember doing so. He reaches for her clothes and manages to both fold them and drop them on the floor in one economical movement, then he’s pulling the covers back, holding them up for her and laying down beside her, cocooned together and resting skin to skin in the middle of his bed.

Later, standing in his kitchen wearing one of his shirts with the sleeves rolled up and sharing a bowl of plomeek soup with him, she thinks of this time last year, and the year before, and reaches out and skates her fingers down his bare back, hooks her index finger into the waistband of his loose pajama pants and gives it a tug.

“I think there’s something about all this that I could say, like you being a very, very good Christmas present.”

“That is fortunate, as I did not get you a gift.”

“Oh, well we’re totally in that awkward stage of not having been together long enough for that to be a thing.”

“A thing?”

She stands on her toes and kisses him, smiling against his mouth.

“Next year I’ll get you something awesome.”

“Truly inspiring of awe? I will anticipate this greatly.”

“And for now we’ll work with what we have.”

“How so?”

“Come back to bed,” she instructs, tugging at his waistband again. “Let’s see what we can do.”

…

There’s something disconcerting about waking up for the first time, naked, in someone else’s bed and when Nyota first opens her eyes she’s half expecting to find somewhere she doesn’t want to be, her clothes scattered telltale across the floor and a resounding feeling of displacement.

But that someone else’s bed is, in the case, Spock’s, so her clothes are neatly folded on his dresser, and looking around makes her ridiculously happy, and she pretty much never, ever wants to leave.

By the time she’s managed to find her hair tie and messily gather her hair into a hasty bun, he’s standing in the doorway with a cup of coffee.

“Yes, please,” she says, tucking the sheet under her arms and sitting up to brace her chest against her bent knees to hold it there, even as she reaches for the mug – and him, but also really the mug – with two hands. “Thank you.”

He sits next to her hip and just watches her blearily drag her thumb under each eye in turn.

“Good morning,” he finally says, his hand finding her foot through the blankets.

“Did I sleep until noon? Because I feel like maybe I did.”

“It is 0834,” he answers, then leans forward and kisses her cheek so sweetly that she just grins stupidly at her coffee. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you. Have you been up for ages?”

“Not ages, precisely, but yes.” He circles the top of her foot with his fingers as she takes a sip of her coffee. “I spoke to Thaalan.”

“At the crack of dawn?” she asks, yawning into her shoulder.

“Again, not precisely. He called to inquire if he, Thex and Schori might come over this afternoon to celebrate Christmas with you.”

She scrunches up her nose and looks at him out the corner of her eye. “Really?”

“Indeed.”

“It’s your apartment.”

“It is your holiday,” he replies.

“It’s only Christmas Eve.”

“Your observation skills prove to be as exemplary this early in the morning as at other junctures throughout the day.”

She bumps her knee against his side. “If this whole Starfleet thing doesn’t work out for you, you could be a comic.”

“I will take such career advise under serious consideration.”

“As is its due,” she says lightly, sipping at her coffee again. She shrugs, the sheet slipping down slightly as she does so. “Um, if you want to have them over, like I said, it’s your place.”

“Do you?”

She cups her mug between her palms and stares down at the steaming, black liquid. 

“Maybe?”

“Is that a question?”

“Yes.”

“I will tell them that you are not amenable to the idea.”

“No, it’s… It’d be fine, I guess.” His hand comes up to spread over her shoulder blade, warm and steady against her bare skin. “Fun, probably.”

“There is only one was in which to ascertain such a conjecture.”

“We would have to make Christmas cookies. It’s a serious undertaking. And we’ll have to invite Gaila.”

“I understand.”

“And I very much doubt that you have any candy canes.”

“You are correct.”

“So…” she says, taking a long sip before looking up at him again. “It’s up to you, but those would be the parameters.”

“I will replicate candy canes if you are willing to teach me how to appropriately decorate a cookie in accordance with Terran custom,” he says, very seriously.

“And I need a toothbrush?” she says, letting it be a question. “Um, and maybe a shower.”

“The sonics in my shower are less than ideal and the maintenance department has yet to schedule it,” he says and she shrugs, because it’s fine and she probably has time to run back to her dorm, anyway. “All that remains are the water settings.”

She pauses, mid sip, and lowers her mug from her mouth. “You have a water setting in your shower?”

“As I said-“

“Hold this,” she instructs, placing her cup in the hand he automatically holds out, and tossing the sheets off of herself.

She feels his eyes on her as she crosses his bedroom and she’s barely even opened the door to his shower stall before he’s right behind her, one hand playing over her hip, his fingers light and warm, as she leans forward to turn on the water nearly as hot as it will go.

“Too bad Vulcans don’t like to get wet,” she says, testing the temperature before she steps under the spray. She tugs her hair tie out and runs her fingers through her hair as the water begins to wet it, closing her eyes at the feeling.

“That is unfortunate,” she hears and grins because it sounds like he hasn’t taken even a single step away. He’s left the shower door open, too, and she can feel the play of steam from the water and the slightly cooler air of the apartment course over her skin.

“You are, though, half human.”

“Correct.”

“So you might as well consider trying it out.”

She opens her eyes to find him looking back and forth between her body and the shower spray rapidly, like he just can’t come up with a correct estimation of costs to benefits.

He finally pulls his sleeve halfway up his forearm and sticks his palm under the water.

“It is not too cold.”

“C’mon, I won’t even give you a shampoo mohawk like I want to.”

“What is that?”

“Definitely not something that I am considering, even a little bit,” she promises, then steps back so that her shoulders brush against the cool tile of the shower wall. “C’mere.”

It takes him another moment, but he finally skims his shirt off and slips his pants down his legs, stepping out of them.

When he steps towards her, he keeps shrinking away from the water, like he can somehow accomplish this without actually letting it touch his skin.

She reaches out with both hands to cup his shoulders and turn him so that her body’s blocking most of the spray.

“Acceptable,” he finally says. She moves closer, then, twining her arms around his neck and pulling him down to kiss. It takes a moment, but his hands finally rise to grip her waist, and another moment still before he deepens their kiss and pulls her into his hard, warm body. “Ah,” he says, pulling back and changing the angle of their kiss. “That is quite satisfactory.”

…

It’s strange to see everyone at Spock’s apartment instead of at Thex and Schori’s, and even maybe more so since it’s the middle of the afternoon instead of the evening.

But they don’t seem at all perturbed and she guesses they’ve all probably been there before, with their obvious comfort with the space.

“Hi,” she gets out as Thaalan pulls her into a firm hug.

“Merry Christmas!” he says, squeezing her. “How much fun! What do we do first?”

“Presents!” Gaila says, dropping a bag on the floor, then grabbing at Nyota as soon as Thaalan has let her go.

“Hi to you, too,” Nyota says, then groans when Gaila starts whispering questions in her ear. “No, nope, none of your business.”

“C’mon, for me?”

“Absolutely not, I’m not answering a single thing.”

“I’m going to get her liquored up,” Gaila says to Spock, who just blinks, looking vaguely concerned, then blinks again when Gaila wraps her arms around him and hugs him, too. “Merry Christmas!”

“I do not celebrate Christmas.”

“Too bad!” Gaila steps back from him and claps her hands together. “This is my holiday, I’m telling you, green skin, red hair, I was born for this.”

Thex looks between her and Spock. “However you are not the one who looks like an-“

“-If you want to see Spock get mad you’ll finish that sentence,” Thaalan says with a loud laugh. “Now where do you want these? What do we even do with them? What happens first?”

“What?” Nyota asks, then follows Thaalan’s nod towards the wrapped presents they all brought. “Oh, I…”

“We have brought you gifts,” Thex says, opening another bag and pulling out bottles of Andorian Ale, red wine, and some sort of viscous, fluorescent yellow liquid that Gaila immediately claims.

“Let’s do them now, can we do them now?” Gaila asks. “I got you something good, Ny. I mean, it’s for you, too, Spock, and I really can’t wait, I just can’t.”

“I didn’t get anyone anything,” Nyota admits, embarrassed by all of their thoughtfulness.

“That is irrelevant. This is your holiday.” Thaalan’s hand falls heavily on her shoulder, but the pressure is somehow comforting. “Some celebrations are for you to share with us, and some are for us to share with you, Nyota Uhura.”

“Oh.” She feels the heat of Spock’s body behind her, and his fingers light on the small of her back. “Thank you.”

“We have never given presents for a holiday before,” Schori says. “It is uniquely Terran.”

“It is a curious tradition,” Thex says. “But we are excited about it.”

“But it’s supposed to be an exchange,” Nyota says, slightly helpless in the face of the fact that they all went to so much trouble

Schori and Thex murmur quietly to each other in Bajoran, too soft and rapidly for Nyota to understand.

“You will spend an evening watching our child when it is born,” Thex finally informs Nyota, who laughs and nods.

“Ok, deal.”

“I require assistance translating our yearly newsletter in various languages, so that former members are able to continue to stay abreast of the happenings of our group,” Thaalan says.

“And I want to borrow that red dress of yours. Have, not borrow, really. You basically never wear it and I frankly don’t even think you know that it’s in my closet, not yours,” Gaila adds.

“Ok, ok,” Nyota grins. “Perfect, yes.”

Schori and Thex produce a beautifully wrapped box. It’s small enough to fit in her open palm and she has to resist the urge to shake it like she used to as a child.

“It’s too pretty to open,” she says, but gently tugs the bow off and peels away the wrapping paper regardless. “Oh. Wow. That’s…”

She pulls a small, golden orb from the box, similar to the one that Thex brought to the Cha’Tara celebration, the first night Nyota met everyone. 

“Lights,” Spock says and Nyota flicks on the power, the sphere lighting up from within and casting specks of color around the room.

“It is the Terran night sky at the winter solstice,” Schori explains. “So that you can bring it on your travels after your graduation.”

“I-“ she starts, then can’t finish. She slips the sphere into Spock’s palm and steps forward to hug Thex and Schori in turn. “Thank you. Thank you both so much.”

Thaalan gives her a beautifully carved knife with a shining, finely honed blade and a intricate hilt that she turns this way and that, trying to read what’s etched into it.

“Those are… runes?”

“They are. It is not a widely known dialect of Andorian, however…” He produces a data chip and hands it to her. “If you have difficulty deciphering them after reading through this, please tell me, but I doubt you will need the help.”

“You… I-“ She hugs him too. “Thank you, Thaalan.”

“You are very welcome, Nyota.”

Gaila produces a bag that Nyota staunchly refuses to open.

“You don’t even know what’s in there!”

“I know what store it’s from. And thank you. I love you. This is very sweet.”

Later, she lets Spock peek into it as she stashes it in his bedroom.

“Ah,” he says. “I see why you did not want to open that in the company of others.”

His cheeks are flushed green and he hasn’t really stopped looking at the closed bag.

“Gaila has good taste,” Nyota says, stepping closer to him and slipping her hands under his sweater to spread her palms on his flat, hard stomach. His skin is so warm and she can’t help but press into him, rising on her toes to place a lingering kiss to his chin.

“She appears to be proficient at selecting…” He can’t seem to finish that sentence and she smiles as she leaves a light trail of kisses down his neck.

“Selecting?”

“Selecting, ah-“

“Want me to try it on and see if it fits?” she asks, breathing the words against his ear and his hands find and tighten over her hips. He pulls her into his body and tips his head to the side as she drags her lips over his earlobe.

“That would be perhaps detrimental to the – the effort of entertaining guests,” he murmurs. His hands squeeze her again, one drifting down to explore the curve of her ass before he takes a deep breath and pushes her a step away to hold her at arms length.

He has to adjust the front of his pants before they rejoin the others and she makes a mental note to thank Gaila properly. But after she – and Spock - have sufficiently enjoyed her gift.

…

“You Starfleet people,” Thaalan sighs, his antennae pointing at Nyota, Gaila and Spock in turn. 

“We can do Andor next,” Gaila offers, tossing a gumdrop into her mouth.

“You can make a planet out of ginger bread?” Schori asks.

“We made a ship out of it, didn’t we?” Gaila says, pointing at where Spock is carefully attaching the Enterprise’s starboard nacelle with what is probably a perfectly calculated amount of frosting. He’s somehow kept himself completely clean during the construction process, something which Gaila certainly can’t boast, as she pops another sugar encrusted finger in her mouth to lick clean.

“Spock made the ship,” Thex corrects, putting an entire Santa cookie in his mouth.

“Yeah, but Nyota and I were instrumental.”

“Were you?” Thaalan asks.

“Probably. Somehow. We’ll figure out the exact contribution later,” Gaila says, then drains the rest of her eggnog. “This is delicious, by the way. And what does a nog even look like?”

“What?” Nyota asks, her reactions maybe slightly delayed by the amount of sugar she’s had.

“The nog, when it hatches from the egg. Is it painful?”

“No… not it’s not… That doesn’t even happen.”

“Cause I thought that’s maybe why my stomach hurts, because it’s going to happen any second.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Nyota assures her.

“Also, on related importance of figuring out all your weird things you all do this time of year-“

“-Cultural relativity, Gaila-“

“-Why is the Grinch so vilified? The dude’s green, he’s awesome.”

“Ask a Who,” Nyota says, taking another sip of her wine.

“A what?”

“A Who.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“What are you going to do with it?” Schori asks, interrupting them and nodding to the ginger-ship. 

Spock just looks at her, and Nyota shrugs. “Look at it?”

“It is not yet finished,” Spock says, reaching for the bag of icing and piping a perfect, NCC-1701 on the hull.

“And stars,” Gaila adds. “It needs stars, maybe on the base. No,” she says when Spock adds a couple, and she reaches out to take the icing from him. “Give me that. They need to be bolder, so that we can boldy go, other wise we’ll lamely go towards lame stars and that’ll be lame.”

“What is the purpose?” Thex asks, sitting forward on the couch and resting his elbows on his knees as he studies their creation.

“Just to make it and eat candy,” Nyota says, grabbing for an orange gumdrop, since they’d used all the blue ones for the warp drive.

“What is its use now that it is complete?”

“Umm… doesn’t have one? When we were kids we would eat all the candy off of it, eventually, but it’d be pretty stale and hard at that point and in retrospect, not really worth it.”

“May we borrow it in order to show everyone tonight?” Schori asks. “As a representation of Terran traditions?”

“Oh it’s not… I can probably come up with something much, much better. This is-”

“Perfect,” Thaalan says. “And we will bring the eggnog as well. It is the celebration of Morath once again and Grouth and Trav will be delighted to share the evening with other rituals.”

“Is it time to go?” Gaila asks, looking up from where she already has most of the Alpha Quadrant sketched out.

“We must, in order to be home before the others arrive,” Thex says.

“I’ll come too,” Thaalan offers, standing and stretching, before turning to Spock and Nyota. “You two going to come over now as well, or in a little bit?”

“They are not coming tonight,” Schori says and comes over to kiss Nyota on the cheek, folding her into a hug over her huge stomach. “We will see you next week.”

As soon as Schori says it, Nyota realizes that she never really had any intention of leaving Spock’s apartment that night, and with the way he’s not exactly arguing about it, he apparently didn’t, either.

“Next week,” Nyota echoes.

When they’re gone, the Enterprise carried carefully by Thex and a last hard hug by Gaila, Nyota leans against Spock’s chest and lets out a long breath, wrapping her arms around him tight.

“Are you well?” he asks, his hands stroking down her back.

“Happy. Very, very happy.” 

“Excellent,” he murmurs, his lips soft on her forehead. “Merry Christmas, Nyota.”

She smiles and nestles closer. “Merry Christmas, Spock.”


	10. Chapter 10

She never would have thought Spock would be a lay-around-in-bed-all-afternoon type of guy, but apparently nudity and the offer of a back rub should be something she files away as tips and tricks for the future.

And if it gives her a chance to admire how the light plays over his pale skin and the way his muscles shift in his back, that’s neither here nor there.

“No, like a decision with intent behind it, something you want to change,” she says, drawing her nails lightly down the dip of his spine before digging her thumbs into the firm muscle on either side. “Something you’re not doing now, that you’d like to be, so you promise yourself that you’ll do more of it in the new year.”

“Something I am not currently occupied doing that I would prefer to be engaged in?” he asks, turning his head slightly from where his face has been buried in the pillow, so that when he opens his eye he can stare up at her. “Sexual intercourse.”

“No,” she says, swatting at his shoulder and laughing. “That doesn’t count.”

“Explain.”

“It just doesn’t.”

“Oral sex.”

“You offering or requesting?”

“I am amenable to either scenario.”

“Hmmm, good to know. But still doesn’t count.”

“The parameters of this tradition are dubious at best.”

“You have cute butt dimples,” she says, ignoring him.

“Pardon?”

She draws her index fingers over the indentations his lower back, just above where his waistband would sit if he wearing pants and not completely naked, which is how she has definitely come to prefer him. “I have them too.”

“I would like to investigate further,” he says, starting to move to turn over, but she doesn’t budge from where she’s sitting on his thighs and she presses her palm to his shoulder blade to still him.

“Nuh uh, only if you come up with a real resolution,” she says, grinning at him, then leaning down to press a kiss to the eyebrow he’s raising.

She sits up again, kneading circles on the back of his neck with both thumbs.

“Vulcans follow a lifestyle that does not leave room for such self improvement, as it is illogical to wait until an event as arbitrary as the change in the stardate in order to enact such revision in habit.”

“Aren’t you special.” His eye, which has been slowly closing, opens again and she can’t help but smile at him. She leans down and whispers in his ear, “You are, you know. In a good way.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

She’s worked her way down his neck to rub the heel of her hand into the muscle between his shoulder blade and his spine, her other palm spread on the back of her hand to add more leverage, when he speaks again.

“I have another submission for your approval.”

“I’ll allow it.”

“It is specifically a research proposal.”

“That’s not a resolution.”

“The resolve will be to diligently follow the experiment protocol, once we have established it.”

“We?”

The very corner of his eye crinkles and she swears that he’s laughing in that way of his. He must be, because she can feel a surge of heady joy where their skin touches, passed back and forth between them, and she leans down and kisses him again, on the temple this time.

“I understand that human women are capable of achieving a significant number of orgasms, often within close conjunction of each other, and often in a repetitive manner.”

“Oh?” she asks, her hands stilling so that she can turn her full attention to what he’s saying. “That’s um… I, uh, I’ve heard that that’s true.”

“I admit, I have never had the opportunity to fully investigate this occurrence with the type of thoroughness and meticulousness to which I am partial when it comes to science.”

“Is that- is that so?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady and normal. “So what… what do you propose?”

“A chance for an exhaustive inquiry into this subject matter. A longitudinal study, if you will, with as many data points as possible in order to ensure a robust statistical analysis.”

“I will,” she says quickly.

“However, as I said, it is illogical to wait until the Federation calendar changes to the new year, if such an undertaking can be begun more immediately.”

This time, she lets him turn over, mostly because her hands seem to have stopped working.

His fingers spread warm and firm over her bare thighs.

“Unless you have any objections?” he asks.

“N-No.”

“Very well.”

His hand curves around her hip, urges her forward, and she rises up onto her knees and feels him scoot slightly down the bed. His lips brush over her inner thigh before he wraps his arm low over her hips to draw her down towards him and she scrambles to grab onto the headboard, her face buried in her arm and an embarrassingly desperate sound already rising from her throat.

…

She answers Spock’s call on the first ring.

“I thought you had to work today.”

“That is correct. Are you occupied?” he asks and it feels too weird to tell him that she all she’s been doing is staring at the wall and contemplating that thing he does with his tongue.

“Reading,” she says instead, looking down at the book she has had open to the same page for the last ten minutes. “So no, not really.”

“May I ask if you have ever been in contact with the Romulan or Klingon Empire, or a representative thereof?”

“Um.” She squints at her comm. “Nope. Never even sent the Romulans that letter.”

“Have you had contact with anyone else who may have an interest in current Starfleet ship design or proprietary technology?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What is your current security clearance?”

“A. No A two, I got permission to look at some transcriptions of talks with the Cardassians.”

She hears him typing something in the background before he asks, “Have you as of yet been issued an active duty uniform?”

“Yes I got one for a project I was doing on the Atahmin’s sensor array.”

“And I am not interfering with prior scheduled events in your day?”

“Nope. What’s going on? And I really hope the answer is a very exciting mission involving subterfuge.”

“I must oversee the transportation of equipment for the geology lab on the Enterprise today and I wondered if you might join me.”

She nearly drops her comm she sits up so fast.

“When are we leaving?”

“I understand that it is not as exciting as-“

“Give me thirty seconds,” she says, pulling her uniform out of the back of her closet.

“Truly?”

She can’t find her uniform boots. Not in her closet, not under her bed. She sets her comm down and starts rifling through Gaila’s things.

“Ok, maybe ten minutes,” she calls in the general direction of her comm.

“Meet me in Hanger Bay One when you are able,” he tells her and she nods, even though he can’t see it, and starts dumping clothes and shoes out of Gaila’s closet.

There is something decidedly attractive about watching Spock pilot a shuttle, and that’s even without taking into consideration how his science blue’s stretch across his shoulders, or the way the fabric falls around his waist. 

“This is always the best part,” she tells him, staring out the window as the blue sky fades and fades and then turns black. Earth is huge below them, still taking up most of what she can see out the window, but beyond it, space stretches empty and dark and vast. “Especially since most times I make this trip, it’s because we’re being forced to practice space jumps, which are terrible.” 

She cranes her neck in order to see Spacedock come into view, the ships berthed at it looking like children’s toys from this distance.

“Literally?” he asks, his hands flicking over the controls.

“Literally,” she confirms and when he reaches over to squeeze her knee, she puts her hand over his, rubbing at his knuckles.

There’s only a handful of maintenance workers on board since most of the staff is home for the holidays, and the few they do encounter just give them polite nods and don’t say much other than a polite greeting.

Spock invites her to keep him company while he works in the lab and she does until the itch to explore the ship gets too strong. She gets a kiss on the cheek, a promise that he’ll find her when he’s done, and directions down to the Communications Bay.

She spends a long time examining the communications equipment, then gets happily lost among the curved corridors, walking this way and that and dreaming of a day she might know these halls as well as she does the paths around the Academy.

She finds the mess hall, eerily empty with so few people on board, and the door to the bridge, which she doesn’t have access to open, and what will be the rec room, though it’s completely empty with wiring hanging from the walls and only half of the lights installed. She winds her way to the Observation Lounge and that, too, is hardly finished, the walls still bare of paint and no rug or tile laid down yet, just the sub-floor that echoes hollowly under her boots as she walks across it.

The view out the large windows is dizzying as Spacedock slowly spins, so that Earth intermittently comes into view before it’s wheeled away again. There are clouds over Vancouver and a storm forming near Alaska and each time she can see it, she studies the planet for as long as she can, her hands pressed against the window before all she can see are the stars again, hard points of light against the black.

She glances over her shoulder and gives him a grin when she hears the door hiss open, but he doesn’t come over to her right away.

“What,” she finally asks, when he still hasn’t spoken.

“I may not have given sufficient consideration to the effect of spending so much time in close proximity to you.” His eyes drop to her legs. “Specifically in that uniform.”

She watches over her shoulder as he walks towards her, until he’s close enough that she can feel the heat of his body wash over her back.

“You might just have to get used to it,” she tells him as his fingers drift over the back of hers.

“Exposure therapy?” he asks, running his index finger down her bare arm so that her skin prickles and tingles.

“I see no other option.”

She lifts her chin to look up at him and sees the tiny smile he gives her before he wraps his arm around her, across her chest, and pulls her back into him.

He’s silent for a moment and she feels him press a kiss to the top of her head before he speaks again.

“Not so very long ago at Thex and Schori’s, in a room quite different from this one, I encountered a newcomer standing in similar solitude.”

“Is that so?”

“I had considered greeting her, but she seemed rather…”

“Frightened?” she guesses.

“Precisely.”

“I thought you were Gaila, coming to tease me.”

“Rather, I had intended to find a moment of quiet among so many others, but it appeared that I was not the only one with that goal in mind.”

“Hmmm, no, you weren’t.”

She reaches up to wrap her hand over his forearm, dragging her thumb across the soft fabric of his uniform and snuggling back into him.

“Are you well?” he asks after a long, quiet moment, as Earth spins back into view in front of them.

“I’ve just been so happy,” she says and turns in his arms to face him, raising both hands to cup his cheeks. “I didn’t even know I was waiting for you, and then there you were.”

His hand rises to spread across the back of hers so that her skin tingles with heat, and he holds her hand in place as he turns to press a kiss to her palm.

“If I were prone to articulating my feelings, I would express that they are quite similar to yours,” he says as he places another kiss to the base of her thumb.

His fingers are warm and soft on her jaw, the back of her neck as he pulls her close to kiss. She loses herself like that for a long time, his mouth so gentle, his kisses so meticulous and thorough that when he finally pulls back, she can’t help but draw in a shaky breath.

“Thank you for accompanying me today,” he says, his voice a low, rough murmur.

“Are you kidding? This is the best, ever.”

“Was that also literal?”

“Yep.” She lets her fingers dance lightly over the back of his neck and dip below the collar of his black undershirt. “But now that you’ve brought me here, I basically have no choice but to work hard enough to get this assignment. I won’t want anything else now. Or anyone else,” she tells him, pulling back enough that she can look him in the eye. “So you better be in this for the long haul with me.”

He rests his forehead on hers and his arms tighten around her, just slightly.

“Of course.”

“Good,” she says softly, letting her eyes drift shut.

“I find,” he says, the words barely above a whisper, “that I would very much be partial to hearing you express the same sentiment.”

“Oh.” She runs her nose along his own, touches her lips to the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Obviously. You’re stuck with me for a very, very long time.”

He is so warm when he pulls her into a hug, his body casting off heat in a way that makes her press into his chest when his arm tighten around her shoulders and back. He pushes his face into the space between her neck and collar bone and she smiles, kisses the very tip of his ear, and glides her fingers through the short hair on the back of his head.

“Excellent,” he says, the word muffled against her skin.

…

“That can’t be safe,” Nyota says. 

“Please, Ny, leave genius engineering projects to me.” Gaila chews on her bottom lip for a long moment before adding one more final touch to the huge ball. “You get your words, I get… this. It’s all done, it’s perfect, it’s amazing.”

“It’s something, that’s for sure. How, exactly, are we going to get it over there?”

“Spock?”

“He’s working.”

“No wonder you’re here, not getting pounded into the mattress.” Gaila shakes her head at Nyota, her curls bouncing, before she squints at the ball again. “Think it’s sparkly enough?”

“I don’t think it could possibly be sparklier.”

“Is sparklier a word?”

“Dunno,” Nyota says, her attention on her comm.

“Wow, are you ok? Do you have a fever? Should I call a medic?”

“M’fine,” Nyota answers as she scrolls through what Spock just wrote.

“Is Spock really working or just texting you from his office?”

“Pike’s late for their meeting,” Nyota murmurs, her thumbs flicking over the keypad as she writes back to him.

“Are you writing him something dirty? I hope it’s dirty. Should I leave? I can leave, let you two do this in peace.”

“It’s not… No, Gaila, of course not.”

“You sure?” Gaila asks, flopping on Nyota’s bed next to her and peering over her shoulder. “Is it about what I gave you? How’d that go? Awesome? Really, really awesome?”

“Hmmm, yes.”

“Knew it,” Gaila grins then slides Nyota’s comm out of her hand. “I’m going to tell him that I’m taking you shopping for more.”

“Give me that,” Nyota says, swiping it back before Gaila goes scrolling through any of their other messages. “He’s just asking how much champagne he should get for tonight.”

“Tell him probably three to four times as much as you’re thinking.” Gaila pauses, then adds, “And that we need this ball moved.”

“Call Thaalan. Or N’Takim. Or Thex. Or just do it yourself, you’re freakishly strong.”

“What is the point of you having a boyfriend if I don’t get some benefit,” Gaila grumbles.

They manage to get the ball over to Thex and Schori’s in the back of Thaalan’s car, who can’t stop peppering Nyota with questions.

“So you just let it drop,” he says, again, as he pulls up in front of the house.

“It’s a controlled drop,” she assures him. “It’s not like you throw it or anything.”

“Nyota said that there’s counting,” Gaila adds from the backseat.

“A count down,” Nyota explains. “Do you ever watch Terran news on New Years Eve? They show the ball being dropped in New York.”

“I often watch the celebrations on Andoria for the changing of the stardate. It is very beautiful, with many fires. Each clan hosts great feasts.”

“Well, we drop a ball,” Nyota shrugs. “And don’t ask me why.”

“A big ball,” Gaila says, twisting around in her seat to lean into the trunk and give it a pat. “And what about fireworks? Can we do fireworks? Cause I brought-“

“No.”

Schori helps her make Nyota’s grandfather’s matoke recipe, which makes the entire house smell like her grandparent’s, and makes a deep pang form in her stomach.

“It is good,” Schori says after sticking a spoon into the pot to take a sample. “Highly palatable.”

“It was always my favorite, I’d request it every single birthday.”

“It is pleasing,” Schori nods, then looks at all the pots on the stove with the same expression of confusion that she’s had for most of the afternoon. “But why so many versions?”

“Oh, it’s human tradition. Or not, I mean, since a lot of people throw their hands up in the air and refuse, but my family always would make a vegetarian version, and a vegan one, and one with no wheat, and one that’s not spicy, and so on, depending on who was at the house, and it just seems to make sense with so many different people coming tonight.”

“That is a formidable undertaking.”

“Humans can be pretty picky.”

“How does one throw their hands up?”

“I’ll show you,” Nyota grins. “You can use it on Thex if he ever drives you nuts.”

“Or if you have spoiled the group and they now all expect personalized dinners.”

Nyota laughs. “Or that.”

Spock, when he gets there after work, brings what Gaila dubs enough champagne, but barely.

“Thank you,” Nyota says, standing on her toes to give him a quick kiss as she helps him bring it in the house. “How was work today?”

“Unfocused and inefficient.”

“Well, it’s the holidays, nobody wants to be in the office this week.”

“I meant, rather, that the Captain spent the afternoon inundating me with questions about you.”

She laughs and the bag she’s holding is heavy and he’s carrying two of them and it’s freezing outside and she could already be in the house pouring herself a glass of champagne, but she stops to kiss him again, quite unable to help herself from doing so.

…

“I do not agree,” Gouth says, his arms crossed and his nose twitching at her. “I do not want to improve myself.”

“Then you can resolve to just keep doing what you’re doing,” Nyota explains.

“You should resolve to improve your argumentative skills,” Trav says, then burps into his champagne flute.

“You should resolve to not violate Terran manners while at a Terran celebration,” Gouth tells him.

“You should resolve to not tell me what to do.”

“You should resolve to not be so impertinent.”

“You should resolve to not be so ugly.”

“Anyone else?” Nyota asks, raising her voice to be heard over them. “Any other questions about resolutions?”

“Why do humans so often fail to adhere to what they choose?” Thex asks.

“Uh, sometimes we get a little idealistic. Or we choose something that requires more effort than we really want to put into it.”

“We need examples,” Schori says, “so that we know how best to come to a decision”

“Well, you can decide you want to exercise more, or eat fewer sweets-“

“-No,” Gaila says.

“Or not leave projects to the last minute,” Nyota says, casting a glance at her roommate. “Like homework. Or you could decide that you want to be better with your credits, or pursue a hobby you’ve always wanted to do but have never made the time for, or call your parents more often, something like that.”

“May we ask our parents to resolve to call us less?” Thaalan asks.

“Um, no,” Nyota says, shaking her head. “It’s about you, something you can control.”

“What are the consequences for not doing what you have promised to yourself?” Chorenn asks, his beak clicking as he speaks.

“There are none.”

“This is illogical,” Gaila declares. “I mean, c’mon, who would actually follow through with this?”

“It can be nice,” Nyota says. “It gives you a chance to decide on something that you want to change about your life.”

“Like not throwing your roommates’ stuff all over?” Gaila asks.

“Exactly. For you to stop doing that, that would be a big change and I’d be very supportive.”

“Not what I meant,” Gaila grumbles, picking up a bottle of champagne and frowning at it when she finds it empty.

“What are helpful parameters to follow?” N’Takim asks, handing Gaila a full bottle.

“Well, if there’s something you’ve been thinking about for a while, or something that you want to push yourself towards, or something that you admire in someone else and would like to adopt for your own life, or maybe a promise that you want to make to someone.”

“Must we share our decision with others?” Schori asks.

“No, no, it can be private.”

“Will you share yours with us?” Thex asks.

“Oh, I…” She swallows, her mouth suddenly slightly dry. Spock is watching her, a glint in his eye that probably nobody else notices but which is making her mind a little fuzzy. She carefully looks away from him and at everyone else, instead, all sitting there in Thex and Schori’s living room, the scent of dinner wafting in from the kitchen, Gouth and Trav still muttering to each other, Didiza patting one of Yeinydd’s leaves, and Gaila handing back her missing globs every few minutes. “Well, um, so a good thing for me would be that because I sometimes spend too much time on my school work and get pretty obsessed with it, in a way that isn’t really healthy, I’m going to try to not let that happen as much this year.” She lets herself look at Spock again, just for a moment, and returns his small smile. “I want to have time for other things in my life and to make sure to set aside my work and come here every week, even when the semester gets busy.”

“May we all use yours?” Schori asks.

Nyota smiles at her, too, and at Thex, who has put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. 

“If you want to, yes,” she answers.

Thaalan stands, steps over everyone who’s sitting between them, and comes over to fold her into a tight hug.

“We will hold you to it,” he says. “You are the only human we have but you may not be so human that you abandon such a promise. You have become very important to us.”

“Thank you.” She squeezes him back, grinning. “And likewise.”

…

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be more to come in this, but for now, at least, this is finished. Thank you all for reading, as well as for all your kind words and enthusiasm! And Happy New Year!


End file.
